


Return

by grey2510



Series: Longer Misc SPN Fics (10k+ words) [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, Episode: s11e23 Alpha and Omega, F/M, Family Feels, Gen, M/M, POV Alternating, Pining, Post Episode: s11e23 Alpha & Omega, Post-Season/Series 11, Reunions, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-07-19 16:52:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 103,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7370017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grey2510/pseuds/grey2510
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chuck and Amara are gone, and the world has been saved, but that doesn’t mean all is perfect. Dean and Mary embark on a journey back to the Bunker and to find Sam and Cas, while trying to reconnect with each other after Mary’s resurrection. Meanwhile, Cas enlists help in his quest to save Sam and make good his promise to Dean, and Sam faces the “justice” system of the Men of Letters. And maybe, when it’s all over, and they all find each other again, they can try for something more, something new, in this life.</p><p>But nothing in life is free.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is mostly just the end of 11x23, but with a few additions.

The door to the Bunker closes behind them with too much finality. Castiel has always liked the place, has always associated it with friendship and family, but now, it seems cold and sepulchral. He knows he shouldn’t think that, not when he still has Sam, but it was always Dean who made this place more of a home—for all of them.

Sam’s shoulders are hunched in grief and Castiel wishes he could do more than offer paltry words of comfort. But, he must try. He promised he would.

“Sam, I’m so sorry. If you want to talk...I’m here if you need anything.”

No response, and Castiel isn’t even sure Sam really heard him. He can’t even imagine the pain of the younger Winchester. Granted, Castiel has lost brethren, brothers, but none could compare to the connection formed between the two hunters. Not even he and Balthazar...and Castiel has only himself to blame for that hole in his heart. He cannot burden Sam with his own mourning for Dean, even though the ache threatens to tear him apart.

“Hello, hello,” a cheery, female, British voice greets them, and they snap their heads up. Before they can react, she reaches out with a bloody hand to a banishing sigil.

If he thought he was being torn apart before, he was grossly mistaken. Faintly, he can hear “Cas!” as half-prayer and half-shout, but it is drowned out as his very essence screams—vocal chords are irrelevant now.

In the liminal space between realities, where all is white and dark all at once, time seems to cease. And yet, he can feel, past the agony of his Grace being torn and ripped, a pull back to Earth. Just before he falls back into reality, he hears one final prayer. The force of the pained and desperate prayer overwhelms his weakened state as he thuds into the ground, and he slips into unconsciousness.

 

 

**

 

 

“Sam Winchester. Toni Bevell. Men of Letters, London Chapterhouse. Oh, you won’t have heard of me—us. We’re very traditional. Keep out of the way, keep to our studies.”

He can’t believe this. The numbness following Dean’s sacrifice is coupled with the shock of Cas’ banishment, and Sam cannot process that he is once again alone. And now, this woman, this member of the Men of Letters...?

“You, um... What?”

“They sent me to take you in.”

“To take me in?”

“Assuming the world didn’t end, and, yay.”

The flippancy in her voice about the fact that the world didn’t end in _another_ Apocalypse... If she only knew the sacrifices...  _Fuck her. And fuck the Men of Letters,_ he thinks, but the somewhat rational part of his brain takes over and decides to try and reason with her.

“Look, lady—”

“We’ve been watching you, Sam. What you’ve done, the damage you’ve caused—archangels, Leviathans, the Darkness, and now, well, the old men have decided enough’s enough. I mean, let’s face it, Sam. You’re just a jumped-up hunter playing with things you don’t understand and doing more harm than good. Now, where’s Dean?”

“Dead.” He gets some small satisfaction out of her reaction to that news, but Dean’s memory deserves more. But, it does tell him one thing: she’s not a completely unsympathetic monster; he can use that. “Listen, lady, I don’t know who the hell you are or what the hell you want—”    

Cautiously, he approaches her.

“Stop.”

He doesn’t. Maybe he does have a death wish. Why not? Dean’s dead, it’s just him now. _You’re not the only one who lost Dean_ , a small voice whispers in the back of his mind. “Put the gun down.”

“I said stop.”

“You and I both know you’re not gonna pull the trigger.”

 _Fuckshitfuck._ The bullet grazes his left shoulder. It’s not enough of a wound to stop him, but it hurts like hell. _Pull it together, Winchester. You killed a pack of werewolves after getting shot. This is nothing._

“I _said_ stop,” Toni repeats herself, looking slightly horrified that she did, in fact, pull the trigger, but the mask of confidence is a damn good one.

“So now what?” Sam asks in a taunt, clutching the wound. “Gonna drag me out of here?” He straightens up and walks towards her, blood seeping through his fingers and into his shirt as his shoulder throbs and burns.

“I wouldn’t keep walking if I were you,” she warns.

“What, you gonna graze my other shoulder?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’d rather not have you bleed out on the way to London. But the tranquilizer on the bullet will hit your bloodstream faster the more you move. And no, _I’m_ not going to drag you out of here,” she adds as Sam feels his vision darken and purple and his knees start to fold. “Unlike you hunters, I actually think through my plans.”

As he collapses to the floor, he sees two men, easily his size or larger, emerge from the side corridor. His eyes start to close, but not before he plays his last card.

 _Dear Castiel. Men of Letters._ _London_ , he prays.

 

 

**

 

 

The ground is hard and surprisingly cool on his back, and Dean’s eyes pop open, revealing a dark night sky and rustling branches. For a moment, he wonders if Amara and Chuck _did_ fuck up the universe and the sun has officially burnt out. But a quick glance at his watch as he rubs his face tells him that it’s somehow several hours since he was zapped to Amara’s garden paradise for a chat and some impromptu family counseling in lieu of a suicide soul-bombing.

Getting up, he grumbles, “Can’t even enjoy the sun that I fucking saved.” And stumbling through the trees and underbrush, he adds, “Come on. Where the hell am I?”

Of course, his phone is getting no fucking signal, so he holds it up like the extra six inches will actually help catch those damn bars. If he could just get a hold of Sam or Cas...

A woman’s scream. “Help! Help me!”

Without hesitation, he takes off in the direction of the voice, bursting into a clearing. He pulls up short. _It can’t be._

But it is. She stands in a white nightgown, blonde hair golden with the light from a street lamp behind her. The shock on his face can only be mirrored by her own.

“Mom?”


	2. Run For It

“How far?” a deep, accented voice rumbles.

“Forty minutes,” another voice, similarly deep, but definitely American, replies.

Sam keeps his eyes closed, preferring to assess the situation as best he can before revealing to his captors that he’s awake. Unfortunately, he can’t say he’s never woken up this way before, although for a change, he seems to be sitting in the backseat of a car on the passenger side, leaning against the window, with his arms handcuffed on his lap, rather than shoved roughly on the floor of a van or something similar—he doubts anyone would even bother to try and wrestle him into the trunk of a car. _Perks of being a Sasquatch_ , he thinks bitterly to himself, but it’s Dean’s voice that comes through, particularly on the nickname. He chokes back the thought of his brother for the moment.

“I’ve called the pilot,” a third voice—Lady Whateverhernameis—adds from the seat in front of him.

 _Ok, one goon in the back next to me, another driving, Lady in the passenger seat, handcuffs, grazed shoulder, no phone, no weapons,_ he assesses, assuming they frisked him fairly thoroughly. Plus, better to underestimate resources than rely on something that isn’t there. _Dear Castiel, I hope you can hear me. I hope you’re ok. Dunno if you got my last prayer, but they got me. Men of Letters or something. From London. I’m gonna make a break for it. Uh...Amen._

He tries not to grimace visibly, and immediately takes back all of the times he made fun of Dean for all of his ridiculous prayers. _Crap. Maybe it’s genetic._

But back to the task at hand.

Stifling a grimace at his stiff and obviously crudely bandaged shoulder, he cracks the eye closest to the window, and thankfully no one seems to notice. They’re rolling past the mostly flat expanses of Kansas, but he’s fairly certain of where he is. There’s a ridge up ahead, and if he’s where he thinks they are, there’s a strip mall not far from a town center just over it. At the moment, he can’t recall the town’s name, but that doesn’t matter. He just needs to reach civilization; he’s pretty sure these guys wouldn’t kill him in cold blood in front of witnesses. He coughs and fidgets slightly, just enough to get the attention of the other occupants in the car. Slowly, he opens his eyes.

“Welcome back, Sam,” the woman—Toni, he finally remembers—greets him. She’s smiling smugly over her shoulder at him, and he thinks he wouldn’t feel all that bad about punching her in the face if he got the opportunity.

“Shit,” he breathes out, straightening up in his seat, then pitching forward, letting his head droop down to be propped up by his cuffed hands; his left arm burns at the motion. He coughs again, and groans, his breathing shallow. “That tranq... Oh shit.”

He retches a few times, and leans in the general direction of the shoes of the guy next to him. Said guy immediately leans forward and shakes his partner’s shoulder. “Pull the bloody car over.”

“No, Marcus, we’re not—” Toni tries to cut in.

Sam lets out another groan and hiccups as though he’s trying to hold something particularly nasty back.

“If he loses his lunch, I’m not flying back to London covered in it,” Marcus growls. “Pull over the goddamn car.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam sees the driver’s gaze flick between Toni and the drama in the backseat. “Oh fucking hell,” the man grumbles, but the car swings onto the gravel shoulder and stops.

As soon as the door locks unclick, Sam fumbles for the handle, while Marcus unceremoniously shoves him out the door. He lands painfully on his knees, still pretending to retch, and he can feel the muzzle of a gun on his back.

“Get it out, then get back in the fucking car,” Marcus warns.

Sam knows he only has one chance at this, and that chance is slightly diminished when he hears Toni’s door open and her high-heeled boots crunch over the gravel. Then again, this could be an advantage. Woman of Letters she may be, but if she were one of those hunters she so despises, she’d know that non-functional clothing and footwear can be the difference between life and death—or the difference between catching your prey or not.

Dean still hasn’t—hadn't—let him live down losing his sneaker; workboots are far more difficult to lose, unlucky rabbit’s foot or not.

He heaves with gusto, apparently giving a convincing performance, because Marcus’ stance relaxes slightly. And that’s all the opening he needs.

Spinning up onto one foot, the other knee still on the ground, Sam swings his still-cuffed arms at Marcus’ elbow so the gun is no longer pointed at him, then shoulders the guy, hard, in the stomach. As Marcus falls back, Sam snatches the gun from his hands, and points it at Toni.

“Eye for an eye, Sam?” she asks coolly, while Marcus wheezes on the ground, Sam’s attack having knocked the wind out of him. Toni’s gun, which Sam notices absently is the same as Dean’s Colt 1911, is pointed right at his chest this time, but he knows that this is more of a bluff than it was back in the Bunker: no one puts in this much effort to capture someone only to kill them not long after. But, Sam also knows it wouldn’t take much for her to wing him again and set him right back to square one.

“Not exactly,” he replies, taking her momentary confusion to fire three shots: one in Marcus’ leg, and one in each tire on this side of the car.

And then he books it, long legs carrying him over the rolling field.

“Shit,” he hears Toni shout, and a gunshot follows him, but he’s not exactly running in a straight line, which makes him a much harder target. “Warren!”

“I got him,” the driver, apparently Warren, answers, but Sam doesn’t look back. He can hear two people chasing behind him, and he can hear Marcus’ string of obscenities over being shot, and his lungs are starting to burn at the desperate sprint he’s making—he’s really got to start adding dead sprints to his morning running routine.

And with that fairly unhelpful thought, he reaches the ridge, clambers down it, and crosses the parking lot, heading towards the strip mall that hosts a convenience store, a yoga studio, and a dentist’s office, the latter two of which are closed. In the darkening evening, only the lights from the convenience store windows provide anything to see by.

“Stop him!” Warren’s voice calls out, and Sam wonders who he could be talking to when a siren wails shrilly, and he belatedly notices the cruiser parked just past the stores in what’s probably a well-known local speed trap.

“Drop the gun and put your hands in the air!” the officer shouts, having climbed out of the car. He’s crouched behind the cruiser’s door, using it as a shield, and he’s aiming his own weapon through the rolled-down window.

 _Goddammit._ He can’t catch a fucking break, and he has no desire to either get shot by a local cop or kill an innocent officer just trying to do his job. Reluctantly, he slows to a stop, drops the gun, drops to his knees, and puts his hands behind his head.

Warren approaches the scene, and Sam can see him holding up what looks like a badge.

“FBI,” he says, and even though Sam seriously doubts it’s a legit badge, the local cop doesn’t seem to question it.

_Dear Cas, I hope you got your ears on. Could really use some backup._

Sam has a feeling that, at least for the time being, he’s well and truly screwed.


	3. The Circle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has a lot of storylines going on at once, but I promise they'll all come together eventually. :)

The text message had been short, but Eileen knows it’s not from any hard feelings on Siobhán’s part: the ninety-year-old finds most technology more trouble than it’s worth. But, considering the O’Rourke farmstead only upgraded to an indoor bathroom and electricity a few years before Eileen and Lillian, her mentor, had waltzed into the psychic’s life hunting the banshee—or _ban síde_ , Siobhán had corrected—Eileen considers convincing Siobhán to invest in a cell phone so they could communicate by text a win in and of itself.

Not that Eileen has many other options besides email for communicating, especially considering she rarely has a stable mailing address that she can check frequently.

In any case, the message, “Something in the circle,” had been enough for Eileen to cut short her visit with Mildred Baker at the retirement home and book it the three hours or so to Siobhán’s family home outside Stull, Kansas. Well, three hours might be the legal driving time—at this time of night, Eileen had pushed her old pick-up down the highway at a frightening clip and made it there a little after ten o'clock.

The farmhouse is dark, except for a warm glow from a first floor window, which Eileen knows is the kitchen. A tall oak brushes its branches and leaves against the corner of the porch roof, under which a bench swing sways gently. Daylight would reveal weathered white paint that probably needs some care, but in the glow of the moon, the place looks practically picturesque.

Killing the engine, Eileen digs out her phone and sends a message back to Mildred, letting her know she arrived safely. After years of being on her own, she still finds it strange to have people who care what happens to her, but her friendship with Mildred is possibly the best result of finally tracking down the banshee. Sam had been right, not that she had really doubted him: revenge isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. But Mildred had taken a liking to the hunter, and Eileen to the retiree, and so there have been several visits to Oak Park in the intervening months. Today, Mildred had delightedly recounted how impressed her granddaughter had been with her ASL, now that she has someone with whom to practice more regularly.

Her phone vibrates before she can pocket it again: _Take care honey. Come back soon._ She smiles briefly, then climbs out of the truck. She can feel her boots crunch over the shifting dirt and gravel of the driveway. She lets the door close, and a porch light comes on as a figure steps out onto the warped boards.

Siobhán O’Rourke’s curly fly-away white hair is pinned in what Eileen thinks was an attempt at a French knot, and the old woman’s arms are crossed over her front. She may be ninety, but she moves and stands with the strength of one many years younger.

Eileen crosses the short distance to the porch so she can better see Siobhán’s features, particularly her lips. “Hello, Siobhán.”

“Eileen,” Siobhán nods by way of greeting. The psychic was never one for “molly-coddling,” as she put it. “He hasn’t moved since he arrived. Still out cold, last I checked.”

“What is it?”

“Don’t know. Not one of the Fae—or a spirit. Looks like a man.” Siobhán doesn’t know sign language, and so she speaks slowly and clearly, enunciating her words more than she does normally. The pale light from the porch plays tricks on Eileen’s eyes, but she can still decipher the woman’s words.

“Is it—he—still in the Circle? Or is he in the shed now?”

“Do I look like I was going to haul him to the shed?” Siobhán raises an eyebrow.

“I’ll take care of it,” Eileen promises. Siobhán regards her somberly.

“I know you will. You know where everything is?”

Eileen nods, and Siobhán takes that as her cue to go back inside the house. Smiling to herself at Siobhán’s gruff nature, Eileen turns on a heel and makes her way to the shed about a hundred yards behind the house. Although, “shed” is really an understatement: the structure is not quite a barn, but it is certainly much bigger than the pre-fab sheds of suburbia. Inside, the old wooden walls, ceiling, and floor, have been marked with wards and sigils. A large red Devil’s Trap takes up much of the floor, although there are symbols from many religions and mythologies all around. Spying a can of black spray paint, Eileen adds a few others she’s picked up on her travels. Satisfied with her work, she steps back outside and locates the oversized two-wheeled wheelbarrow she left here for precisely this purpose about six years ago, when a dazed leprechaun had made its way to the O’Rourke property.

The Circle is about fifty yards beyond the shed, hidden by a copse of trees. To an outsider, the place would look like nothing more than a strange circle of smallish knee-high boulders in a field of tall grass. To anyone with any sensitivity to the supernatural, the place apparently hums with a quiet energy. At least, that’s what Siobhán has told her. Eileen may have had a great deal of contact with the supernatural, but beyond losing her hearing to the banshee, she isn’t exactly sensitive to anything. According to the psychic, Siobhán’s great-grandmother convinced her husband to settle here after feeling the pull of the Circle—although there had been no literal circle at that point. The rocks had come later, thanks to the strong backs and arms of her sons and husband. But the energy had been here, at this thin spot between the realities. Over the years, the O’Rourkes have had their share of denizens from the fairy realm, spirits looking to escape the Veil, and now...a man in a trenchcoat.

Frowning, Eileen sets down the wheelbarrow just outside the circle, and takes out a bottle of holy water, an iron nail, and a silver knife from her jacket. She approaches cautiously, even though the man does not move. He looks to be somewhere in his thirties or early forties, and his dark brown hair is somewhat disheveled, which Eileen supposes is to be expected, considering the circumstances. The striped tie is loose and askew, and the white dress shirt gleams in the light of the moon. Even in the near-dark, the man looks haunted.

A few drops of water, a nick of the knife, a touch of the nail. No reaction from the man, supernatural or otherwise. Momentarily satisfied, she stands at the man’s head, then grips under his arms, dragging him to the wheelbarrow. He doesn’t exactly fit in the contraption, but she maneuvers his limbs enough so that she can steer him back to the shed.

She’s not quite panting once she gets him inside the Devil’s Trap and returns the wheelbarrow outside, but it’s a close call. The uneven ground between the Circle and the shed had been tough to navigate, and the man is not exactly feather-light.

And now she waits. She pulls up a stool and settles down on it, though she keeps a knife and her gun ready.


	4. Is This Real Life?

“Dean?” His mother’s voice is small, cracked, shocked.

He can’t believe it. Not only that she’s _here_ , but that she _knows_ him. His feet seem rooted into the ground, somehow denying all of his desires to rush up to her, to hug her and be hugged back, to confirm that she’s _real_.

_Dean, you gave me what I needed most. I want to do the same for you._

Could Amara have tricked him?

“Mom,” he croaks out, and he takes a step towards her.

She takes a step back, and his heart clenches at her fear. “Where am I?”

“I...I don’t know.”

“I’m...dead.” She holds up her hands, as if she has never seen them before. “I was in Heaven… How did I…?”

“God’s sister, I think,” he automatically supplies, even though she barely seems to register the response. He holds up his own hands in peace like he’s approaching a frightened animal.

“Is this real?” She regards him with a hunter’s critical eye. “Are you real?”

“Yeah, Mom, I’m real,” he replies, and he can feel tears prick his eyes. “It’s just me. God, I missed you so much, Mom.”

Something in her face softens, and she finally takes a few steps towards him.

“Dean,” she says and goddammit, his heart breaks at the sound of his name filled with warmth and love, just like the arms that wrap themselves around his shoulders. He closes his eyes, just soaking up her embrace. Even the djinn hadn’t been able to get every detail completely right—from the color of her hair to the citrusy soap she’d favored—and the real Mary is far richer than his childhood memories.

They pull apart after a moment, and maybe if Dean hadn’t been so overwhelmed with the situation, he might have registered the sleight of hand that reached into his pocket. He’s a good pickpocket himself, but Mary makes him look like an amateur.

She brandishes the knife in front of her, and Dean has no doubts that she knows exactly how to use it.

“Mom, what—”

“Last time I saw you, like this, you came back with Sam to stop angels.”

“You remember that?”

“I didn’t...before.” A muscle twitches in her jaw. “How do I know this isn’t a set up?”

His hands are up again. “You don’t,” he concedes brokenly. “Look, for once, we won. And God’s sister said she wanted to repay me for helping them, so she brought you back. That’s all I know. Mom. Please.”

He hates begging, but the thought that his mother believes he wants to hurt her cuts him deeper than the knife she wields ever could.

Finally, she lowers the weapon, but he notices her grip on it doesn’t relax, and he's reminded of when she confronted him behind the diner in 1973; Mary Winchester can hold her own.

“Where are we?” she asks softly and with a far kinder tone.

“I have no freaking clue,” he answers with more than a hint of relief in his voice. “But, there’s a light, and we’re in some sort of park, so we can’t be too far from civilization.”

“How about that?” she points at his phone with her chin. “Radio?”

He holds it up. “Just my phone,” he explains, remembering belatedly that she died in 1983, back in the pre-Internet, pre-cell phone Stone Age. “But, there’s no signal.”  

Awkwardly, they both look around, surveying the area for some sign of where they are or how they might get to where they want to be. And lo and behold, an honest to fucking Chuck literal  _sign_.

“C’mon,” he says with a jerk of his head in the direction of the park sign maybe a hundred feet in front of him and to the right. He jogs, and Mary keeps up, despite her bare feet. Thankfully, the park seems fairly well-maintained and free of obstacles for her.

 _Welcome to Eden, South Dakota_ , the white letters on a green background read.

And of course it does. Because higher powers have the shittiest senses of humor.

“Have you ever been here?” Mary asks dubiously, crossing her arms over her thin nightgown. Frowning, Dean shrugs off his jacket and offers it to her; she takes it gratefully.

“No, but I know my way around South Dakota pretty well. We just need a car...”

From the looks of things, Eden would make Lebanon seem like a thriving metropolis; Dean didn’t know that was _possible._ But, across from the park is a one-pump gas station with a single stall garage behind it. The half-dirt, half-pavement parking lot, such at is, seems to be home to a single maroon 90s sedan. He can’t make out the make and model from here, but he’d guess it’s probably a Honda or Toyota. Honestly, he doesn’t really care, as long as he can get it to run, and at least it’s not as embarrassing as Cas’ Pimpmobile—although, at this point, he’d be completely thrilled to see the beige monstrosity, especially if it came with its owner and his brother.

“Wanna aid and abet some grand theft auto?” he asks his mother, and Mary gives him a mildly disapproving look, but if he knows anything about his mother—which, he’s beginning to realize, is very little—is that she is nothing if not practical, and so he’s not at all surprised when she leads the way to the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, hopefully four chapters is enough to pique your interest. The coming chapters should be longer, too, now that we're getting past most of the expositiony stuff. And those of you here for the shippy stuff, no worries, it's coming.
> 
> Next chapter up tomorrow (hopefully).


	5. No Failure to Communicate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note on the use of ASL in this fic:  
> I do not know ASL (I can spell and know a couple signs). If you are Deaf or have more familiarity with ASL and have feedback for me, I would LOVE to have it. The more I know, the better writer I can be.

His eyes are grainy and heavy as he struggles to pry them open. His limbs feel like lead and his head pounds. Sluggishly, Castiel groans and forces himself to sit up on the worn wooden floor, his eyes finally blinking open as he moves.

“You’re awake. Now we’ll find out what you are.”

The syllables sound strange to his ears but he can’t, to use an idiom from his ever increasing store of human peculiarities, put his finger on why. His vision focuses from bleary to something resembling clear, revealing the inside of what looks like a woodshed. A bare bulb shines on the structure’s walls, which are painted with wards from numerous religions and languages, including, he notes with despair, Enochian. By the door and outside the red Devil’s Trap on the floor stands a woman with brown hair pulled tightly back into a bun at the base of her skull. She’s holding a silver knife in one hand, a gun in the other, and she looks perfectly confident in using either.

“Who’re you? Where am I?” he asks as he rubs a hand over his face in an effort to wake himself up.

She doesn’t respond, but continues to glare at him when he looks up.

“What are you?” she asks and Castiel realizes, watching her mouth form the words, why her speech had sounded odd to him before—and why she hadn’t responded to his questions.

“I am an angel,” he explains, while absently wondering if his sign language will come across as stiff and awkward as he has been told his English does. The woman’s eyebrows raise at his signing, and he hopes he has not committed some faux-pas; ASL is admittedly a language with which he has had little, if any, practical experience. “I won’t harm you.” 

“An angel, huh? Not exactly reassuring,” she answers, obviously unwilling to put down her weapons in order to communicate.

“I’m not like my...family.” If he can even call them that anymore. How many times has he heard that his celestial brethren have disowned him? And then Dean had said, in the car… Castiel stops himself. He can’t think about Dean. Not now. The memories threaten to consume him, drown him in grief and guilt and regret and so much that was left unsaid. “Please, I have to help my friend. He’s human and a hunter. I promised his brother I would watch out for him.”

“Brothers? Hunters?” She squints at him, taking a step closer, but still not crossing the thick lines of the outer circle of the trap. “The Winchesters?”

“Yes! You know them?”

Tucking the gun into the back of her jeans, the hunter turns and scrapes at some of the Enochian warding on the wall. Immediately, Castiel can feel his Grace—what little is left now that Heaven has once again boarded up—expand gratefully.

“Sam and Dean helped me kill the banshee that killed my parents,” she explains as she crosses the room and offers him a hand, helping to pull him to his feet.  

The banshee. Somewhere, in the depths of Castiel’s vague memories while possessed with Lucifer, a scene surfaces: Lucifer ripping through the archives in the Bunker, Dean returning briefly from a hunt to collect golden daggers, a tortured confession about Amara…

“I—” he clumsily starts to sign before letting go of the woman so he can use his other hand.

“I can read lips,” she tells him, not unkindly.

“It’s good practice,” he shrugs. “What’s your name?”

“Eileen.”

“Castiel,” he offers, while also finger-spelling the surely unfamiliar name.

“Cas-tee-ell?” She crinkles her nose as though she dislikes the taste of the syllables. “Cas?”

He smiles sadly, but nods. “Dean called me that. Sam does, too.” His voice cracks and stumbles over Dean’s name.  

“Called?”

“Dean is...gone.” Eileen’s jaw drops open, and Castiel can’t meet her eyes as he continues, “And someone came for Sam. She banished me before I could do anything. I need to—”

“Cas,” she interrupts with a gentle hand on his arm, forcing him to meet her gaze.

He blushes when he realizes that, in his agitation, he had both stopped signing and turned so that she could no longer read his lips.

“Sorry.” 

She shrugs, undoubtedly used to having to remind people to face her. He scowls inwardly at his inconsideration.

“What happened to Dean?”

Cas raises his hands to reply, then lets them fall to his sides again. He shakes his head. Thankfully, Eileen seems to understand, and she doesn’t press the matter.

“I’m sorry. Dean was a good man.” 

He swallows back the tears that threaten to form. _Later_ , he tells himself. There is work to be done. Dean gave him a mission, he made Dean a promise, and after all the ways he has failed, Castiel _refuses_ to fail in this. Sam is his friend and family, but more than that, he is _Dean’s_ brother. The enormity of Dean’s request, the implicit trust in that request, is not lost on Castiel, even though he cannot understand how Dean could have considered him worthy of the task of protecting Sam Winchester. But he will try.

“I need to find Sam,” he says after a moment. “A woman...she banished me before I could stop her.”

A look of grim resolve graces the hunter’s face. “How can I help?”

Castiel reflects that if he were not intimately familiar with God and his exact level of disregard for the affairs of humans and angels, he might have believed that divine intervention was responsible for bringing him to such an ally as Eileen. Regardless of his thoughts on his Father, wherever He may be—if He is even still alive—Castiel is grateful for the hunter’s presence and willingness to help.

He still feels shaky and weak, and very alone. Ever since the Host locked the doors again, Angel Radio has been silent, and ever since his banishment and the final message he received from Sam, he has not had the Grace to listen for further prayers. Even recalling Sam’s prayer sends a wave of nausea over him, and he steels himself by unconsciously gripping Eileen’s shoulder; she doesn’t protest, and instead simply moves herself to better support his weight as he wavers on his feet.

Sam’s words are distant, foggy, in his memory; his connection with the younger Winchester is strong, though not as strong as the ones he shares with Dean and Claire. Shared with Dean. He wonders if he’ll ever accept that Dean is gone.

 _Dear Castiel. Men of Letters. London._ A simple prayer, but enough information to go on for now.

“Cas? What is it?”

“Sam’s final prayer to me. Or, at least, the last one I heard before I went unconscious,” Castiel answers, lifting his head so she can see his face. “The woman who banished me was from the Men of Letters. They’re a society that—”

“I know who they are,” Eileen interrupts, letting go of him once she’s sure he can stand on his own again. Once her hands are free, she immediately begins to sign, clearly finding this a more comfortable method of communication. Castiel watches her hands with interest, noting how fluidly they move, though he can tell that, for his benefit, she is going a touch slower than she might normally. “My grandfather was in the Men of Letters. He left his journal to my mother. I have it. But I thought they were defunct?”

“I thought so, too. Sam and Dean inherited the abandoned Bunker. The woman—Sam said she was from London.” 

Eileen’s eyes light up at that. “Come on.” 

Puzzled, Castiel follows her out of the shed and into the night air, replete with the smells of farm and woods and the faint sound of crickets. He pauses for a second, but without full access to his Grace, he cannot determine their location. Catching up to Eileen again, he asks, “Where are we?”

“Outside Stull, Kansas,” Eileen answers aloud as she continues to fish through a pocket, finally producing car keys.

He doesn’t even consider it remotely a coincidence that he has reappeared so close to the place where his brothers faced each other in what was to be the Final Battle of the Apocalypse. He shudders at the image of Lucifer wearing Sam Winchester’s face, an image that sours in his gut and turns into the memories of his own possession by the archangel.

 _It wasn’t stupid. You were right. You were right to let Lucifer ride shotgun. Me and Sam wouldn’t have done that._

_Well, it didn’t work._

_No, but it was our best shot, and you stepped up._

“Cas?”

“I’m sorry. This place. It’s just…” He trails off, then forces himself to offer her a weak smile; he wonders how it is perceived in the dim light from the moon. “I...I made some bad decisions. And yet Dean—and Sam, I think—still forgave me.”   

She studies him for a moment. “I didn’t know Dean very well, but I think he’d want you to forgive yourself.” Her words are gently spoken, and he tries to accept them, but he’s not sure he’s ready. With a little more firmness, she adds, “And he’d want you to help Sam.”

Those words hit him harder, and he straightens himself up as best he can. “Of course.”

With that, she leads him to a pickup truck parked in a dirt and gravel driveway outside of an old, but obviously lived in, farmhouse. The single light from the porch casts an odd glow over the vehicle. Castiel regards the house carefully while Eileen searches through a duffel on the passenger seat of the truck.

“Do you live here?” he asks as she makes her way back to him, holding a worn leather journal.

She shakes her head. “A psychic. Siobhán. She lets me know when she gets supernatural creatures on her property. You’re not the first, no offense.” Pausing just before reaching Castiel, while still in the light’s reach, she starts flipping through the journal. “Here,” she announces after a moment, and hands the journal to him.

On the yellowing page is a handwritten list of numbers and initials. It’s not unlike the pages of John Winchester’s journal, or the additions his sons have made over the years.

“Coordinates?”

“My grandfather worked with the European Men of Letters,” Eileen explains. She steps forward, then points at one column. “From what I’ve figured out, I think this column is the location of each country’s headquarters.” She points at a second column. “This one is for the Bunkers.”

“How do you know?”

She shrugs. “I put them on a map. The first set are all in cities. The second set is always rural.”

Hope blooms in Castiel’s chest. “We can track down Sam.”

Maybe he won’t dishonor Dean’s memory after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll probably have the next chapter up on Tuesday since tomorrow I'll be celebrating the 4th of July with a cookout, beer, and fireworks...just as the Founding Fathers would have wanted.


	6. Reunion Tour

"Sorry about the knife," Mary says, almost shyly, about twenty minutes after they’ve taken off from Eden in the less than ideal Honda Civic.

The first twenty minutes had consisted of Dean trying to find _any_ kind of sign that would give them an indication as to which direction they were going; and naturally, because the universe will never stop screwing him over, they’d taken the road going north, rather than the one going south, and so they’d had to double-back. Eden did not improve on the second visit.

And, other than the CliffsNotes version of the God vs. Amara showdown that Dean had stopped and that had ultimately led to Mary’s return, they haven’t really had a chance to talk about _anything._ Luckily, Mary had taken the explanation with surprising ease, and only a few questions, but Dean guesses that’s what happens when you’re raised as a hunter, have had angels fuck with your life a few times, are killed by a demon, and are miraculously returned to Earth in the same freaking nightgown you died in over thirty years ago.

Shifting into fifth gear now that the road has opened up, Dean looks over to his mother and gives her a small smile.

"Don’t worry about it. Not the first time a family member’s threatened me, and it won’t be the last," he tries to kid. The car is silent again, and Dean checks his phone one more time. Still no fucking signal. Sighing and returning the phone to the center console where it’s in easy reach, Dean lets a question bubble up from the _thousands_ he has for his mother. "How much...uh...how much do you remember or...know?"

Mary doesn’t respond right away, and her eyes stay fixed out at the dark road before them. "I remember all of it—even the parts Michael didn’t want me to. And...I know what your father told me."

Dean nearly jerks the car off the road in his surprise as he whips his head over to her. "Dad? He’s in Heaven?"

Truth be told, he and Sam had never been sure what had happened to John after his spirit had climbed its way out of Hell to help them stop Yellow Eyes. They’d hoped, though neither had ever said it, in case they were wrong, that his soul had ascended and not been dragged back to years and centuries and an _eternity_ of torture.

"Not at first." Dean understands that to mean that she knows all about John’s stint in Hell. "He’s better, now."

"Good," Dean says gruffly, emotions choking any other words.

"He told me everything. Well, everything from his point of view, but even he admits..." She pauses, and covers his hand on the gear shift, squeezing gently before letting go. "I know you and Sam have been through so much. More than I think I’ll ever know. I’m so sorry."

"It’s not your fault, Mom. And Dad...he did the best he could."

Ten years ago, he might have been able to convince himself of that, but now, the old excuse feels stale on his tongue. 

"There’s a lot of blame to go around," Mary admits, her words heavy with guilt and regret. "Trust me, your father and I had _a lot_ to talk about. But we’ve forgiven each other." There’s a false brightness in her voice that makes Dean’s heart ache. "He’s sorry, you know. He loved you both and he knows how hard he made life for you."

"You don’t have to apologize for him." As though he can escape this conversation, he hits the gas pedal with more force than he needs, jerking the car forward. Scowling, he lets off the accelerator, letting the speed drop to something at least in the general vicinity of reasonable.

"I’m not excusing him," Mary says quietly. "And I can’t ask you to forgive him, and I know it can’t erase or change how you and Sam grew up. But, if you can’t accept that he’s sorry, how can you ever forgive me?"

"Forgive you? For what?"

"I _knew_ , Dean. Maybe not what would happen that night, but..."

"Mom..."

"I thought I could escape," she chuckles bitterly. "I guess my father was right."

Dean bites back his tongue on the subject of Samuel Campbell; that’s a can of worms he has no desire to open right now—Samuel’s willingness to sacrifice his own grandsons to bring back his daughter, the fact that Sam ultimately killed him during the Khan worm fiasco...

"I tried to get out, too," Dean admits about a mile later. "Sam, too, a few times."

"John told me about Stanford," Mary comments with fondness. "He was so proud, beneath it all. And you? Was it...after your father died?"

"Yeah, but, uh, not college. The Stanfords of the world aren’t too big on accepting high school dropouts," he shrugs. "I think. Never applied, anyway."

"So, who was she?" 

He hasn’t thought about Lisa, or Ben, in a long time. There are times he regrets what he did to them; Sam had been right: it was some of the shadiest crap he’s ever pulled.

"Lisa. Lived with her and her kid for a year. Didn’t end well." _Understatement of the fucking century._ "It wouldn’t have worked, anyway. We tried. She even was cool with me hunting, but..."

"The job?" It’s only two words, but Mary’s ending of the story is one with which both of them are too familiar, even if the details differ.

"Yeah."

"But you loved her?"

He grimaces. "Yeah. Maybe. I think..." _Fuck, this was_ _years_ _ago. Why is it so hard to talk about?_ "Honestly, I think we wanted that life more than each other."

Lisa was amazing, and he owes her so much. She had said it was the best year of her life. But not because of what _they_ had. But because Dean could be a father to Ben. And Ben? There’s a small voice in the back of his mind that always whispers, _What if she lied? What if he really_ _was_ _yours?_ But, biologically or not, Ben had been his son for a time, and Dean can admit to himself that the kid is probably a big reason why he stayed with the Braedens as long as he did.

Mary studies him wordlessly, taking it all in, and Dean’s thankful that she seems to understand his reluctance to keep talking, even though, technically, he is the one who brought it up.

Suddenly, the blackness of rural South Dakota opens up to reveal a decent-sized town, and Dean immediately grabs his phone.

"Finally!" he declares, seeing that he has a whopping two bars of signal. He pulls over, not wanting to lose the connection, and not in any rush to kill his mother by trying to use a phone and shift gears at the same time. _Sammy would be so proud,_ he smirks to himself, thinking of all the times his brother has scolded him for multitasking at the wheel.

 _You’ve reached Sam. Leave a message,_ the voicemail instructs him.

"Sammy! It’s me. You’re not rid of me yet, bitch. I, uh, have a surprise for you. Not gonna believe it. Hope you and Cas aren’t doing anything stupid, and I guess you can cancel the cover band and Gary Busey. So, yeah. Give me a call."

"Bitch?" Mary raises a critical eyebrow as Dean ends the call.

"Uh...sorry, Mom?"

Mary gives him a look like she’s going to scold him, before laughing, "I guess you’re too old for me to tell you to be nice to your brother."

"He’ll just call me a jerk," Dean defends, somewhat petulantly.

"Are you really going to try a ‘he started it’ with me? Especially when I _heard_ you start it?"

"No?"

"That’s what I thought." She pats him on the cheek, and for a moment, Dean is strongly reminded of Ellen’s brand of tough love. He thinks the two of them would have gotten along well. Maybe too well. "Who’s Cas? You mentioned him before. And on the phone."

"Cas is...a friend," Dean hedges, unsure whether to reveal what he is, given Mary’s previous experiences with the Heavenly Host; he hadn’t missed the particular vehemence Mary had had when she’d mentioned Michael before. But, if she’s going to be around for awhile, and assuming Cas decides to stick around... "He’s an angel."

"A _what?_ "

Yeah, ok, definite vehemence.

"Trust me, he’s not like the rest of 'em. They’re dicks. Cas is one of the good ones."

"Are you sure?" Mary’s voice is laced with a hunter’s suspicion.

"Cas is the one who pulled me out of Hell. Sammy, too. And me 'n him went through Purgatory together," Dean adds bluntly. "He’s had our backs more times than I can count. Yeah, I’m sure."

"You...went to Hell? And Sam? And Purgatory?"

Dean sighs, both hating and loving the concern radiating from his mother. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "Yeah. It’s...not something we talk about. We’re ok, Mom."

Not really, but close enough. Before Mary can ask more questions, Dean scrolls through his phone and hits Cas’ number. Honestly, he’s not even sure Cas still _has_ his phone—it’s not like they’d done inventory after Lucifer got the boot, and who knows what the archangel had done with Cas’ things once the ruse was up and he was no longer pretending to be their friend.

 _You have reached,_ a female voice recites before the angel’s deep voice fills in, _Castiel_. The female voice continues, _Please leave a message after the tone._

Dean misses Cas’ old and confused voicemail message, but the angel is now "tech savvy" and likes texting and emoticons (because apparently that's what nerdy little angels do).  

"Hey, Cas. It’s me. Survived your dad and aunt. Man, your family is weird. Um. Hope you and Sam are ok. Don’t let Sammy do something dumb. We’re heading home." He pauses for a fraction of a second, realizing his use of pronouns. "Yeah...uh...got someone for you to meet. Call me back, k?"

He hangs up, trying not to be bothered by the fact that neither of them have answered. Then again, if he were in either of their places... Hell, he _has_ been in either of their places, he knows _exactly_ how he reacts to losing Sam or Cas: he doesn’t look for answers in a cell phone, he looks for them at the bottom of a bottle. Or two. Or dozen.

Mary is looking at him oddly when he returns his phone to the console, but he ignores it for the time being, and instead steers the car back on the road. He has a feeling she’s still trying to process that they’re friends with an angel, although there had been something else in her expression.

"You really are close with him, aren’t you?"

"Who, Sam? Cas?"

"Cas."

"Yeah. Told ya: we’ve been through a lot. He’s family."

"Family." The wistfulness pokes and prods at the thirty-year-old open wound of loss.

But, as they drive further into the South Dakota night, Dean wonders if maybe that wound can start to heal.

 

 

"It ain’t fancy, but we should be able to get something other than a nightgown," Dean shrugs in apology as he steers the "borrowed" car into the Walmart parking lot.

Idly, he wonders just what the clientele will be like at a 24-hour Walmart at 11 pm, but then again, it’s not as though they really have any right to judge. Mary hugs Dean’s jacket closer to her, and frowns down at her feet, clad in Dean’s socks. He feels like a jackass about that, but she’d tried the boots and found them too difficult to walk in, and so she’d settled for the grey socks that Dean’s pretty sure were fairly clean...before he wore them to the end of the world. He can’t say that laundry was exactly a priority at the time. But, as sketchy as Walmart can be, the place does have _some_ standards, and no entrance without shoes—or socks, in this case—is one of them. Plus, he wouldn’t walk around barefoot in that place if someone paid him to.

"I can’t say I’ll be sorry about returning your socks and jacket," Mary teases, but Dean can still hear the undercurrent of shell-shock in her voice. He can’t blame her; he’s pretty sure there’s a note of manic hilarity in everything he says.

He’s taking his no-longer dead mother shopping for clothes after just convincing God and his sister not to destroy the world and each other. The fact that said mother is shoeless and wearing a wispy white nightgown under a too-big dark blue denim jacket is easily the most normal aspect of this whole situation.

They make their way past the registers to where the women’s clothing section shouts out to them with bright pinks and prints. Two memories surface at this: the thought of shopping with Ben for Lisa’s birthday, when the two of them had been utterly clueless meandering around the racks of clothes, until they’d both finally decided that a nice necklace and matching earrings, and that new yoga mat she’d been hinting about were probably a safer bet, and shopping with Charlie for her FBI get up and her utter disappointment at having to buy something conservative and not at all fitting with her montage music. He swallows back the images and follows Mary, who strides forward with far more confidence, ignoring the stares of the two employees they pass.

The Mary Winchester he knew from his childhood liked summer dresses and floral prints, and so he is somewhat surprised when she marches right past a likely looking display and goes to the jeans—and not the fashionable brands made of thin material, but the far more functional styles. Well, functional in Dean’s line of work, that is. Grabbing a few pairs, Mary then spins, scanning the clothing section.

"Hold these?" she says, though it’s not really a question as Mary practically dumps the jeans in Dean’s hands as she heads towards the wall of colorful Hanes t-shirts, grabbing a few in various hues. She moves with such a whirlwind of efficiency that it takes Dean’s brain a moment to catch up when he realizes she’s moved to the section of socks, underwear, and bras.

"I’ll...wait by the changing rooms, Mom," he tells her awkwardly. This road trip has been enough to start chipping away at his idealized memories of his mother, which has been hard enough as it is, but there’s no way he’s hanging around while his _mother_ goes bra and underwear shopping. Rationally, he knows it’s no big deal, and fuck he can practically _hear_ Charlie’s voice in his head telling him to suck it up and that women’s underthings don’t have cooties, but today is just not the day that for that battle; there are some parental lines he’s decided he ain’t crossing.

Mary pauses, as though just realizing what must be going through Dean’s mind. It’s uncanny how this woman, whom he only knew as his mom who baked pies and played with him in the backyard and sang "Hey Jude" every night, can switch right into the hunter mode that he knows she grew up in. Sure, he’d seen her in action back in the 1970s, but it still startles him.

"How about you check out shoes for me? Boots? I’m a size eight and a half," she tells him, with more than a hint of an amused smile.

"Boots. Right. Do you want the jeans?"

Mary bites her bottom lip in thought, then her eyes light up as she spots something just behind Dean. He turns and finds an abandoned cart with two pairs of polyester elastic-waist pants in them. Polyester eradicated, Dean and Mary deposit the clothes in the cart and separate, saying they’ll meet at the changing rooms.

Five minutes later, Dean’s carrying two large shoe boxes so that Mary has a couple options to try, and leaning against a pillar outside the changing rooms. He checks his phone for what must be the thousandth time, but still no response from Sam or Cas. He resists calling again for the moment, hoping against hope that they’re just drinking themselves into oblivion in mourning and not doing something stupid like calling up Billie for a favor, not that the Reaper would—or could—grant it. _Sammy better not have hit another damn dog,_ he thinks, somewhat uncharitably. He doesn’t even want to think of what Cas might be up to, the self-sacrificial bastard. Then again, if he knows Cas, the angel probably took Dean’s final words to heart and is awkwardly trying to mother-hen Sam. There’s something endearing about that thought that makes Dean smile to himself, even though he knows both of them probably still think he’s dead.

Clearing his throat, he calls out, "Any luck?" to the only closed door, assuming his mother is in there, if the cart parked outside is any indication.

"Yeah. I’m fine," Mary replies softly, and the second part makes Dean frown. As a master of saying everything’s "fine," Dean can spot the lie a mile away.

"Mom? What’s wrong?"

Mary emerges, wearing jeans, a light blue t-shirt, and a dark grey denim jacket. Her blonde hair falls past her shoulders, and her hand absently brushes a lock behind her ear. "I look different."

"Well, yeah, you’re not stuck in 80s sleepwear," Dean says with as much light-heartedness as he can muster. "You look good, Mom."

"No, that’s not..." Mary stops. "Dean, I was twenty-eight when I died. I...I don’t look like that anymore."

The realization slams home. _Goddamn._ Technically, his mother is _younger_ than him. Granted, Henry had been about his age or probably younger when he’d crashed through the brothers’ closet a few years ago, but they’d had no comparison for their grandfather and so there hadn’t been any emotional attachment to Henry’s appearance and age. And when they’d traveled back to the 1970s, they’d expected Mary and John to look younger. But here, in this timeline?

"Mom..." he starts to say, but he honestly has no idea what to follow that with. Of course, his mouth unhelpfully decides to pick up the slack without any input from his brain, and he adds, "You should be sixty-two."

Mary’s eyes narrow, but Dean can see a hint of a smile at the corners of her lips. At least, he hopes it’s a smile and not a grimace.

"You don’t look sixty-two," he covers. And it’s true: she doesn’t.

"So how old _do_ I look?"

Ok, Dean knows he’s no braniac like his brother, he’ll admit it, but he’s smart enough to realize he’s in dangerous territory here.

"Forties?" he stammers, hunching in his shoulders and trying to give his best "please don’t kill me" look.

"Forties, huh?" Mary scrunches up her nose unhappily, but then reconsiders. "Ok, I suppose. Split the difference."

"Mom, _I’m_ thirty-seven," he adds defensively. "This is weird enough, but if you were twenty-eight still, you’d be younger than _Sammy_. We’d have to introduce you as our sister or something."

Turning, Mary faces the full-length mirror just outside the changing rooms. Cautious fingers graze her hair, then hem of her jacket. "Sixty-two. Hm. I guess I just look good for my age," Mary decides wryly, catching Dean’s eye in the reflection. "And for being, you know, dead."

He gives her a half-smile in response, even though neither of them really find it all that funny. But if there’s one thing a hunter’s life teaches you, it’s that gallows-humor is sometimes the only way to make it through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't get me wrong, I think Samantha Smith looks fantastic, but she's 46, not 29. I actually talked about this [here](http://grey2510.tumblr.com/post/145160381938/bluestar86-hamburgergod-im-seeing-a-lot-of).
> 
> I also hope that Mary doesn't come across too cold. But, I'm trying not to write her as just the doting mother figure we see of her on the show...which I also talked about [here](http://grey2510.tumblr.com/post/145000868723/grey2510-drsilverfish-someoneworthfinding).
> 
> Oh and for the younger readers, you young'uns: CliffsNotes = old school Sparknotes/Shmoop. But Dean wouldn't probably reference the latter.


	7. A Rude Awakening

Whatever Sam’s captors had shown to the officer had apparently worked to get them out of the hair of local authority and back to the car, courtesy of the cop and his cruiser. Marcus had managed to bandage his leg and had been waiting stiffly for them on the ground behind the car, out of sight from the road, along with the flat tires. After assurances to the cop that they did not require any further assistance, Lady Toni Bevell made an angry and irritated call to the airfield to get them to send a car. And, apparently any niceties were officially over: as soon as the cop was out of sight, Sam had been jabbed with a needle full of the tranquilizer again.

Which is why, for the second time in twenty-four hours, he is groggily waking up, handcuffed, his shoulder hurting like hell, in an unfamiliar vehicle.

Except this time, it’s a plane.

"Just not my day is it?" he mutters to himself. He’s answered with a grunt, and he looks up to find Marcus, clearly still bitter about that getting shot in the leg thing, pointing a gun at him from the opposite seat.

"Hello again, Sam," Toni’s voice says from behind him, and she takes the window seat next to Marcus. The plane, or jet, more likely, is spacious, allowing her to do so without the awkward clambering over neighbors that occurs on a commercial craft. "I think you can relax, Marcus. I don’t believe Sam is going to make any more escape attempts. Not for a while anyway."

"I wouldn’t bet on that," Sam replies, but it’s at this moment that his brain catches up to his surroundings and he realizes he’s handcuffed to the chair, and his ankles have been shackled. Definitely more of a problem, but not insurmountable. But, even if he did break out, what’s he going to do? Hijack the plane?

 _Dean would’ve hated this,_ he thinks, both sadly and fondly. And not just the getting captured part, which would naturally piss him off, but the whole "being chained to a flying metal comet of death" part—at least, Sam’s pretty sure that’s how his brother would have phrased it.

As though Dean’s ghost has possessed him after that contemplation, Sam grins obnoxiously. "So, how’s the leg, Marcus?"

Marcus’ only response is to cock the gun.

"Marcus," Toni warns. "Take a walk."

"A long one," Sam chimes in. "You know, walk it off. Just a flesh wound, right?"

Marcus leans forward in his seat. "Don’t think I won’t kill you if I get the chance, Winchester," he growls lowly.

"Marcus." For all her primness, Toni’s voice is stern with authority. Marcus grunts as he hauls himself out of the chair and limps towards the front of the plane, using the backs of other seats for support.

"Well," Toni is saying and Sam refocuses his attention, "I can’t say that was the smoothest operation, and I would’ve liked to get your brother, too, but..."

"Fuck you. You don’t get to talk about Dean."

"Sorry. You two are—were—extremely close, weren’t you? But that was part of the whole problem, wasn’t it?" Sam glares at her, but doesn’t respond. "You Winchesters, always breaking the world to save each other. And that angel of yours, Cassiel..."

 _Cassiel?_ Sam loses the thread of her condescending villain’s monologue, distracted by the error. _Maybe I heard her wrong._

"...shame your grandfather was killed when the American chapter got wiped out. I’m sure he would’ve—"

Sam starts laughing at this. "Lady, you don’t know anything."

"I’m sorry?"

"Henry Winchester? Didn’t die in 1958. He died in 2013."

Toni studies him, a puzzled crease on her forehead. "He was in hiding?"

He snorts. "Sure, if time-traveling fifty-five years and trying to kill the Knight of Hell that followed him counts as hiding."

"Time-travel?"

"Oh, did the British Men of Letters miss that whole saga, _hiding_ out in your clubhouse?"

Shifting in her seat and adjusting her jacket uncomfortably, Toni replies, "There were rumors."

"Rumors. Great. Well, thanks for the backup on that one. Sure was nice, considering Abaddon made it through the _Men of Letters’_ defenses before she even got to us lowly hunters." Wondering why he’s even still trying to argue this point with her, he abruptly changes topics. "So where’s Warren? Didn’t want to leave home and that fancy-ass fake badge?"

It’s strange: Dean has only been gone a few hours, and yet, Sam feels like he’s channeling his brother: the cheap digs and jabs, the cruder language, the recklessness. Well, there are worse ways he could honor his brother’s memory. (Though, there are definitely betters ones, too.)

One half of Toni’s mouth quirks up smugly, and again Sam fights the urge to punch her. "Oh Sam. It seems _you_ don’t know anything. Warren is actually FBI."

Sam blinks. "You got Men of Letters in the FBI?"

"Not exactly. But after _some_ hunters ran afoul of the law, we decided it might be prudent to have a few contacts in the system." Toni pauses, fixes her stare directly at him. "Especially when innocent agents were in danger."

"Like Henriksen?" _Talk about a blast from the past_ , Sam thinks _._ Henriksen had learned the truth, but too late. And he hadn’t deserved to go out like he did; he’d been a good guy, under it all, just ignorant of the real enemies. "So, the FBI is hunting now?"

"No. Our contacts just ensure that actual agents don’t get involved in the mess. Divert, redirect, obfuscate. I told you, we keep to ourselves and try not to harm the world or anyone."

_Huh. Guess that explains why we haven’t had the Feds on our tail for awhile..._

"Of course, you and your brother have made it increasingly difficult to stay under the radar. After all, you are supposed to be dead. Several times over. So, let’s just say, our good Warren was...working off the clock for this assignment."

"Learn something every day," Sam snarks. Taking a moment, Sam considers his captor: the posh accent, the tailored clothing, the familiarity with weapons but no ruthless desire to use them. "So what’s in this for you?"

"Pardon?"

"You. You’re a Woman of Letters, but you mentioned the old men in charge, and you seem too smart for that patriarchal crap. But when they send _you_ to come capture two hunters, and I somehow doubt you have a lot of experience in this kind of work—"

"I have experience—"

"You wore heels to a hunt. And the first thing you said was that you guys like your books and to stay out of trouble."

Toni regards him coolly. "What’s your point?"

"Well, like I said, they send you, when clearly they’ve got grunts who know their way around an abduction," he adds, nodding towards the front of the plane where Marcus hobbled off to, "and you go, no questions asked. They say ‘jump’, you say ‘how high’. So I gotta wonder: what’s in it for you? Or what do they have over you?"

Satisfied, Sam sits back in his chair. It’s really too bad Cas isn’t here: he and Toni could have a smiting glare competition. But, unable to kill Sam with a look, Toni instead simply stands up.

"We land in five hours. Hope you’re comfortable."

She makes her way down the aisle, but Sam can’t help but get in one last taunt. "Not bad for a jumped-up hunter playing with things he doesn’t understand, huh?"

Her shoulders stiffen, but she doesn’t respond or turn around, except to drag across a thick, navy dividing curtain to block off the front of the plane.

Sam’s victory, however, is short-lived, as he realizes that five hours is a long time with nothing to do and nowhere to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of love Sam being a sass master and just generally not giving a fuck.


	8. Up in the Air

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, my knowledge of ASL is extremely limited, so if I made an error/wrongly interpreted the information I looked up, please please let me know.

While Castiel considers himself fairly adept at technology, thanks to some tutorials from the Winchesters, some fondly mocking comments from Claire (and the brief thought of the girl and his neglect of her during the past few months sends a fresh wave of guilt over him), and his own forays into figuring out the intricacies of the Internet, he is still amazed at how quickly Eileen is able to manipulate her phone to book them tickets out of Kansas City International Airport for London.

Obviously, Castiel would prefer to fly there on his own power, but considering hearing prayers makes him feel nauseated, flight on his own, never mind with someone else, is certainly out of the question. And that's not even taking in account the state of his wings.

Castiel’s phone lies despondently broken in the middle of the truck’s bench seat. He’s not sure if the force of the banishing sigil or his landing in the field is what ruined the device, but the end result is the same. From her phone, Eileen had tried texting Sam's number, and Castiel had tried calling it, but no response, which further cemented their decision to attempt to track Sam to England.

"Are you sure we’ll make it in time?" he asks. The flight leaves in just under two hours, and they’re roughly an hour from the airport. Castiel’s knowledge of airports is largely confined to what he has seen in films and from Dean’s protestations in regards to the utter horrors of flying, but he’s come to understand that it involves a great deal of standing in lines, navigating security clearances, and dashing across terminals. Or rushing down the disembarkment ramp into the arms of a loved one. He assumes a great deal of this is exaggerated, but given their current time constraints, he wonders if the former concerns may be valid; the latter is highly unlikely to occur.

Turning the ignition and seemingly unconcerned with the spray of gravel the tires spit up as she maneuvers the truck back onto the main road, Eileen replies simply, "We’ll make it."

 

 

After checking in, Castiel and Eileen make the requisite rush to the security line, where he realizes there may be an issue. Thankfully, the line is relatively short, given the time at night, but that’s not what worries him, especially as he peruses the signs and warnings around the checkpoint.

"I don’t have a passport," he explains, slowly finger-spelling the last word, leery of the security stationed all around and banking on them not understanding what he says to her.

Eileen bites her lower lip in thought and adjusts the duffel on her shoulder; they’re traveling light, but Eileen had grabbed the "essentials" from her truck before heading into the airport; she had also pointed out that traveling without any luggage would seem suspicious.

"Do you have any ID?"

Frantically, Castiel checks his pockets, eventually unearthing a wallet. A subsequent pocket contains his fake FBI badge. The wallet is newer; after Claire pickpocketed his old one—well, Jimmy’s original wallet—he’d been forced to get a new one to house some cash, a fake credit card, and the forged license that Sam had created for him. Unfortunately, neither identification is a passport.

"You just need the license to board," Eileen reminds him, surveying Castiel’s inventory.

He sighs, realizing yet another issue. He holds out the license so she can see the name.

"Shit," she whispers.

The license is for Steve Smith, Castiel's old alias from his days as a human. The plane ticket is for Cas Winchester; he’d supplied the last name without thinking, not truly having one for himself, and he’d given the nickname, figuring it would be less likely to arouse comment or attention.

"I have an idea," he tells her, awkwardly still juggling the IDs and the phone. Mustering as much of his Grace as he can, and adopting his confident stride of yore (the one Dean had once referred to as the "badass angel with a stick up his ass about something" look), he approaches the TSA agent, a small woman, with dark hair and beady eyes peering out behind thick black frames, who looks utterly done with the whole procedure.

She eyes him critically when he presents the ticket and ID, and Castiel tries not to feel guilty when he nudges her with his Grace when their hands meet. Her gaze goes slightly unfocused as she looks between the license and the ticket, before she snaps back to attention and sharply tells him, "Your tie is crooked. Have a nice flight."

Taking his boarding materials back, Castiel nods, not trusting himself to speak—or pass out, to be honest—as Eileen goes next in line. She makes it through without incident—the benefits of having a legitimate ID—and in the next minute, the woman is shooing them towards the metal detector lines so that she can deal with the blond man behind them, going on at length in a twangy accent to the woman next to him, who is clearly uninterested, about how much he’s looking forward to Lauderdale and how well airlines have treated him in the past.

As he tries to steady himself after the use of Grace’s drain on his energy, Castiel represses a smirk when the agent bluntly tells the man, "You have small hands. Like a little boy," which shuts him up immediately.

Once through security, they shove their shoes back on and race to the terminal, only to arrive just as the flight attendants are shutting the doors. Eileen reaches their destination before him, and Castiel suspects that he might not have made it if the gate were much farther. As it is, he fights to remain upright while his Grace clamors for rest.

Perhaps films are more accurate than Castiel realized.

The attendant at the desk is just about to tell them that they’re too late, and Castiel is about to protest, when Eileen discreetly nudges him in the stomach and begins signing and saying out loud, "We missed the announcement to board."

The attendant, a young man who can only be a few years older than Claire, and is obviously unsure what to do, seems to internally wrestle with himself before allowing them through.

Once on board, having eventually settled in a middle seat for Eileen and a window seat for Castiel, Eileen turns to him with a grin.

"Did you really use Jedi mind tricks at security?"

"I understand that reference," he replies, rather proudly. "I used my..." He pauses, unsure if the sign for "Grace", meaning "God’s Grace", is appropriate for what he means. He uses it, then also the sign for "magic", even if that’s not entirely accurate either. Luckily, Eileen nods in understanding. "I don’t have much left. Need rest."

"It’s a long flight." 

Castiel agrees, relieved that Eileen would clearly not think it odd or rude if he "sleeps"; it’s not really sleep, but he supposes it’s the closest human approximation to the rest he requires.

"I didn’t think we’d make it in time," he confesses.

Eileen makes a displeased face. "I don’t like playing the Deaf sympathy card."

Considering this for a moment, Castiel doesn’t respond immediately. "I should probably feel more guilty about using my powers like I did today."

"It worked," Eileen shrugs.

"We both have our powers." 

Eileen doesn’t seem entirely convinced, but she doesn't argue.

When the flight eventually takes off, Castiel begins to understand why Dean has always hated flying. The shaking of the plane is unpleasant, to say the least, but he stares entranced and longingly out at the receding lights on the ground and the moonlit clouds as the craft ascends into the night sky.

"Cas."

He turns to find Eileen looking at him in concern.

"Do you miss flying?" 

He nods. "What’s an angel without its wings?" he mutters, more to himself than anything, recalling Hael’s words after Metatron’s spell.

"What?"

Facing Eileen again, he shakes his head. "Nothing."

Eileen’s lips quirk, a little sadly. "You’re not like what I thought an angel would be like."

"I’m often told that," he replies, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. "My brothers have disowned me. I don’t blame them. What I’ve done... I’m not sure what I am anymore. Where I belong."

"What about Sam and Dean?"

At Dean’s name, Castiel feels his spirit weaken even further, and Eileen immediately signs an apology.

"Dean said... Before he..." Castiel stops, then forces out one last sign. "Family."

Gently, Eileen covers one of his hands with hers in sympathy.

"I understand," Eileen says after a moment, her hand still on Castiel’s. He looks at her bemusedly. "Not about being an angel. But...it’s not like I exactly fit in many places."

Not wishing to be insensitive—he knows he sometimes lacks tact; human social conventions are bafflingly complex—he says, with as much neutrality as he can, "Because of…?" and taps his ear with his free hand.

"Deaf, hunter, woman, no parents," Eileen shrugs, with more than a hint of sardonicism, and she brings her hand back to her lap. "Take your pick."

"I’m sorry."

"Not your fault." 

They sit quietly for a few moments, and Castiel is grateful that no one has taken the seat next to Eileen, affording them a modicum of privacy to talk in such cramped quarters.

"Sam was the first hunter in a long time who didn’t question if I could do the job," Eileen says after a minute. "He invited me to the Bunker, talked about his family, wanted to help. Dean accepted me, too."

Despite himself, Castiel feels a small smile twitching the corners of his lips upward, while his heart clenches. "The Winchesters are good at taking people in," he says. Something about the way Eileen talks about the younger Winchester, however, prickles at his admittedly laughable skills at detecting social cues. "Are you and Sam close?"

"We’ve texted a little," she replies, carefully. "But not in a few weeks."

"We’ve been...busy." It’s an understatement, to be sure, but he’s uncertain how much he should reveal about the near catastrophe they—Dean—barely managed to avert.

"I figured." She smirks. "The sun."

Of course. The sun almost dying and then stabilizing is hardly something that would have "flown under the radar." Inwardly, he prides himself on the use of the idiom.

The pilot comes over the announcements to tell them of their cruising altitude, speed, estimated arrival time, and appreciation for their passengers' decision to fly on this airline. Castiel relays the gist of the announcement to Eileen in explanation of his sudden silence.

He’s not really sure why, but he follows this with, "Dean hated flying. He fought evil, went to Hell, but dreaded going on a plane."

The question shouldn’t be completely unexpected, considering his own inquiries, but Castiel still blinks in surprise when Eileen cautiously asks, "Were you and Dean...close?"

Her emphasis on the final word puzzles Castiel for a second before he understands what it is that she is implying. "Yes...and no," is the best he can manage. The exhaustion of the past few days—months—beats back his words and he finds he cannot even begin to explain his incredibly confusing and complex relationship with the elder Winchester. "We weren’t…"

His words die in a single breath, and he rubs his eyes, entirely and uncomfortably aware of the tremble in both his voice and his fingers.

"I’m sorry."

"Not your fault," he answers, consciously echoing their previous exchange; her dark brown eyes smile in recognition.

"You look tired. Do angels sleep?" 

"Not usually," he admits. "It’s not that I don’t want to talk..."

She waves him off, settling herself more comfortably in her own seat. "We’re no good to Sam if we’re tired."

The narrow seats and cramped leg room are hardly ideal for rest, but Castiel finds that these factors matter far less than one would anticipate, and he quickly slips into unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The blond guy and the TSA agent bit is blatantly taken from [TSA America: Level Orange - "Just Relax"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qxDzSnthx-Y), written by, and starring, the amazing Misha Collins, because what's SPN without some meta madness?


	9. Detours and Doubts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was planning on working on this tomorrow, but inspiration struck me early, so here we are. Enjoy (or cry)!

“You’re falling asleep at the wheel,” Mary chides him. “I can drive, or we can stop somewhere.”

Dean is loath to stop now. Neither Sam nor Cas has responded to his calls or texts, and he’s beginning to worry, and he just wants to get back to the Bunker. He tries to rationalize that he shouldn’t be concerned: they just got rid of the latest Big Bad (Bads? Does God count? Was Amara actually all that bad? When did this all get so fucked up and complicated?), and Sam and Cas are more than capable of taking care of themselves. But, the nagging voices won’t dissipate, and seem to grow louder as his eyes start to droop and his exhaustion plays tricks in his mind. He doesn’t even know when he last slept, and the emotional rollercoaster of the past few days has certainly taken an additional toll.

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” There’s a certain maternal concern in his mother’s voice that pokes at all of Dean’s defenses in a way he doesn’t quite want to let himself admit. He’s about to reply—whether in agreement or argument, he’s not entirely sure—when Mary holds up the phone he’d entrusted to her after a brief explanation of how to use it as just a phone; the Internet can wait. The screen flashes the low battery symbol briefly, then cuts out again. “Do you have extra batteries?”

Dean chuckles bitterly. “No, ah, phones don’t use batteries like that. It needs to be plugged in.”

“Oh.”

Clearly, the phone’s desperate search for a signal in the middle of freaking nowhere South Dakota has not done Dean any favors. But what else is new.

They drive under a large green highway sign, giving Dean an idea, though he’s not quite sure what their welcome will be at this time of night. Morning? Whatever. It’s dark, and people don’t usually react well to being woken up by unannounced visitors.

“Where are we going?” Mary asks when Dean swings the Civic onto an exit ramp.

“Family friends in Sioux Falls,” he explains. “Kill a few birds: place to crash, charge the phone, and maybe they’ve heard from Sam or Cas. Assuming Jody doesn’t shoot me when I ring the doorbell.”

Mary raises an eyebrow. “Friends?”

“She’s a sheriff. And a hunter, sometimes. She probably sleeps armed, and this ain’t exactly regular visiting hours.” He smirks. “You’ll like her.”

His mother gives a wry grin that Dean barely catches in the light from an oncoming car. “Sounds like it.” She pauses, then continues, “You said friends, plural. Jody have a family?”

“Yeah,” Dean sighs out. But, he might as well give his mother the rundown before they get there. “She’s got two teenage daughters. Sort of. Alex was raised by vampires as basically a blood slave and lure till we got her out of it. She’s been with Jody a few years. They’re pretty close." Dean's not all that shocked when Mary takes that bit of information at face value. "And Claire…"

 _Christ._ Now there’s a story and a half.

“Claire?” Mary prompts.

“Claire is…" He tries again. “Claire’s father was Castiel’s vessel.”

“Cas—Castiel—is _possessing_ some poor guy?”

Dean barely contains his dark amusement that his mother’s indignation is nearly word for word the same as his own when he first met Castiel—for he wasn’t “Cas" then, not yet.

“Not anymore. Jimmy’s in Heaven. Cas still has his body, or something like that. Cas and Claire—well, ‘complicated’ is kinda underselling it, but they’re mostly good now. So she might’ve heard from him, ‘specially now that..." _Especially now that Lucifer’s not in the driver’s seat..._ But that’s a detail Dean has so far avoided telling his mother. “And, uh, Jody and Sam are good friends, so…"

He shrugs, hoping Mary doesn’t notice the awkwardness about Cas’ story. Of course she does, though, because that’s Dean’s life, but for once it all works out and she doesn’t press him beyond giving him a sidelong glance, which he resolutely ignores.

Truthfully, he doubts that Sam’s contacted Jody, at least, not this quickly, but Cas’ involvement with Claire usually increases whenever he’s feeling particularly guilty and he’s not tied to Netflix. Which reminds Dean: when they get back to the Bunker, Cas isn’t going anywhere near a laptop or TV. From what Crowley had said about Cas when he was locked in his own mind, it hadn’t been pretty, and Cas on a binge had been depressing...and should have been their first clue that something was up with the dude. No wonder he said ‘yes’ to Lucifer. If Dean’d just done something to help other than let Cas retreat, made sure he knew he's important and needed and wanted, then maybe—

“Dean?”

He shakes himself out of that spiral of thoughts, one that’s haunted him and replayed over and over again these past few months. “Sorry. Lot on my mind.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Silence stretches as something in Dean’s gut twists. “You don’t have to.”

“I will, Mom. Just...not now.”

“Ok. Whenever you’re ready.”

He’s not sure he’ll ever be ready, but he’s not also not sure he’ll get the chance to wait and find out.

“You gonna make it to Sioux Falls?” Mary wonders, noticing when Dean rubs his eyes and stifles a yawn.

“Yeah. Just, uh, keep talking. Keep me awake, you know?”

“What do you want me to talk about?”

“Anything.”

Mary’s quiet for a moment, but then asks, and Dean can _hear_ the grin in her voice, “Did you ever hear the story about the first time I tried to make a soufflé?”

“No…?”

She laughs, and the sound is rich and comforting, and Dean feels like a man tasting water after trekking through the desert. When was the last time he heard laughter like that?

“I’m surprised. I thought your father would never let me live that down…"

Settling into the driver’s seat, Dean thinks the only thing that could make this ride better, besides being back in Baby, would be if Sammy were here to listen, too.

 

“Dean?” Jody greets as she opens the door, still in her uniform. Dean notices that her right hand is hidden beyond the doorjamb, confirming that his suspicions about getting shot were not exactly unfounded; he'd bet ten bucks she's got a shotgun in easy reach. “You ok?”

“Yeah, I’m good.” Awkwardly, he turns a little to reveal Mary. “Jody...this is my mom, Mary. Mom, Sheriff Jody Mills.”

Jody’s eyes are wide, and she looks between Mary and Dean quickly before recovering and holding out a hand to Mary. “Nice to meet you.”

Mary returns the handshake. “Likewise. Dean speaks highly of you. We really appreciate you helping us out.”

“Right, of course. C’mon in.” Jody steps back, opening the door even more.

Sensing the tension from the sheriff, and not really sure what to make of it, Dean opts instead for small talk, or what passes as such, coming from him. “Thanks, Jody. So how ya been? You just get in?”

Jody, thankfully, takes the opening. “Yeah, well, for some reason when the sun starts to crap out and then starts back up again, all the crazies come out,” she rolls her eyes. “Been a long day.”

“Don’t worry: that’s all fixed.”

The sheriff huffs a small laugh. “Should’ve known you boys had something to do with it. Thanks, by the way.” Frowning, and looking past Dean’s shoulder, she adds, “Where’s Sam?”

“Got separated. Part of why I’m here, actually.” He holds up his phone as Jody leads them into the kitchen, and he hits a button to demonstrate its deadness. “You haven’t heard from him, have you? Or...has Claire heard from Cas?”

“No, I haven’t. Sam ok?” Without asking, Jody grabs beers from the fridge and hands them all around. Dean twists off the cap and takes a grateful swig before answering.

“Probably. Just haven’t been able to get in touch with him.” Dean shrugs with as much nonchalance as he can manage. It’d been a long shot, he rationally knows, but the doubts start whispering in the back of his mind once more.

“Sam can take care of himself. I’m sure he’s fine,” Jody reassures Dean, and Mary. “As for Cas…" Her lips purse, and Dean has a feeling he’s not going to like what comes next.

“She heard from him?” he asks again, fearing for the sliver of hope that just won’t quit.

“She’s asleep, so you can ask her in the morning, but I don’t think Claire’s heard from him in awhile,” Jody says softly, but there’s a hint of accusation in it. She takes a sip from her own bottle. “She doesn’t talk about it, or Cas, but Alex finally got it out of her, and I got it out of Alex.”

“Cas was in a bad place. He’s better—should be better—now,” Dean defends, but the words sound paltry, even to him. He can feel his mother’s eyes on him from the left where she stands, nursing her beer, unable to participate in the conversation and probably fighting the urge to ask more questions, considering how vague he’s been to her as well.

“Look, I ain’t even gonna pretend to understand that whole situation, and I’ve never even met the guy,” Jody says, “but I know one thing: if Cas is gonna try and fill in for her dad, he can’t keep giving her the run around.”  

“I know, and he knows, but—"

“Probably wouldn’t hurt for you to call up every once in awhile, too, you know.” To Mary, Jody adds, “Sorry. This is probably your job more than mine.”

"You’re doing fine,” Mary tells her, faintly amused, and toasts Jody with her bottle.

“Thanks, _Mom_.” Dean turns back to Jody. “And... _what?_ I’m not her dad.”

Jody rolls her eyes. “So, the ‘get yourself back in school and stop hunting like a dumbass’ spiel, that was, what? Just shootin’ the shit? She listens to you, Dean, Lord knows why."

“That was just...I’m not…"

She pats him on the shoulder. “You’re not quite as surly as Bobby, but give it time.”

Scowling, but inwardly a little pleased, Dean points a finger at the sheriff. “Fine. But if I grow a beard and start wearing mangy baseball caps, I’m blaming you.”

“You do what you think’s best, hon,” Jody smirks. “Now, how about we get you guys set up for the night? We got blankets, pillows, and a couch, and you better tell me you’re taking the floor, Winchester, not your mom.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Dean nods seriously, but cracks after a second of Jody's arched brow and he grins.

“Do you need help?” Mary offers, but Jody waves her off.

“Everything’s in the hall closet,” she explains. “Dean knows where.”

“It’s not the first time we’ve crashed here,” Dean shrugs. “You got a phone charger, though?”

Jody nods and heads off down the hall. “Be right back.”

Mary looks at Dean, a grin spreading on her face. “I like her.”

“Told ya. Jody’s awesome.”

“You bet your boots I am,” Jody adds, rejoining them with a cord in hand, which Dean takes and promptly goes into the living room and hooks up in the outlet behind one of the endtables.

“Jody, do you have a bathroom I could use?” Mary asks when Dean returns, and her question is almost timid as if she fears she’s imposing on the sheriff’s hospitality.

“Sure thing. First door on the right, light switch is in the hall, and there’s probably a couple of spare toothbrushes in the cabinet,” Jody nods in the general direction, and Mary heads that way.

As soon as the door clicks, Jody rounds on Dean, who blinks in surprise.

“Uh, Jody…?”

“Dean, I don’t want to sound like the bad guy here, but are you _sure_ that’s your mother?” she whispers fervently. “I mean, she’s come back from the dead, and you know…"

“Shit, Jody, I’m sorry...I didn’t think…" Dean stammers, horrified. How could he forget how they met the sheriff? Family members rising from the grave hasn’t exactly gone over well in Sioux Falls, and he can’t even imagine Jody’s grief over that tragedy with her son. “It’s not like that. She’s fine. Real deal.”

Jody’s eyes narrow, but not enough to hide the pain. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Look,” he says, unsure how else to go about this, “you trust me ‘n Sam, right?”

Crossing her arms, she deadpans, “Depends on the dumb idea of the day.”

“No, I mean, like you trust that me ‘n Sam are me ‘n Sam.”

“Sure,” she allows, but not really budging an inch.

“And you know we’ve been ‘round the dead and back block a few times…"

She fixes him in a stare. “Was that supposed to be comforting?”

“Sounded better in my head.” Dean scrubs a hand over his face. “I dunno how else to explain it. But I just know. This isn’t like the Apocalypse: Round 10, or whatever number we’re on. She’s...a gift.”

“A gift?”

Shifting his weight on his feet, Dean replies, “Bad choice of words. But, uh, I helped out God...and his sister...and so she gave me my mom back. In thanks, or something.”

Dean’s gotta give Jody credit: she does an admirable job of keeping it together when he oh-so casually reveals he’s been playing Dr. Phil for _God_ and _God’s sister_ , because oh yeah, _God’s got a freaking sister._

“You and your brother get into the weirdest shit and I am way too tired to puzzle that out,” she sighs at last, but she does so as she drops her arms back to her sides, and Dean knows they’ve reached a truce. He doesn’t really blame Jody, not after what happened to her son and husband, but he can’t say he likes the idea of one of his closest—few—friends distrusting his mother or thinking she’s some sort of monster just waiting to turn.

Suddenly, he understands how Bobby felt when Karen reappeared, and feels like a dick about how he’d acted; he probably could’ve been more sympathetic.

But he’s not wrong about his mom. He can’t be.

The bathroom door opens, and Mary emerges. Dean and Jody straighten up, and Jody pats him on the arm before plastering a smile on her face and asking Mary if she found everything ok. Mary nods, thanks Jody, and heads to the living room.

“I’m sorry about this, Jody,” Dean adds once it’s just them in the kitchen again. “And thanks.”

“It’s all right. I’ll see you in the morning, ok? You good with everything?”

“We’ll be fine.”

Jody gives him a small smile, then heads in the direction of the stairs; Dean follows his mother’s path to the living room after a quick pit stop at the linen closet.

Neither of them change before bed, except for kicking their boots off: Dean because it's not like he packed a bag for his chat with Amara, and Mary because the white nightgown is currently stuffed into a trash can outside a South Dakotan Walmart—and good riddance. Mary settles on the couch under a light green and white afghan, and Dean stretches out on the floor on top of a thick comforter that’s surprisingly decent as a makeshift mattress, but he knows his back is still gonna ache like a bitch in the morning; Christ, getting older sucks. Upside of being shorter than Sam: he got the couch last time they were here because it’s not like his brother’s Sasquatch limbs were gonna fit. Not that at 6’1", Dean had fit all that much better, but still.

Despite the thoughts whirling in his head, Dean’s nodding off quickly, biology winning over philosophy. He’s on the edge of consciousness when Mary says quietly, “Jody doesn’t trust me.”

His eyes snap open. “What?”

“I...I heard some of what you two were talking about.”

 _Fuck._ Sitting up, he finds himself at eye-level with his mom. A streetlight casts a pale orange-ish streak over her through a break in the curtains, but the overall dimness isn’t enough to hide the heaviness in her expression.

“Mom...it’s fine. Jody's ok, it's just...” He runs a hand through his hair. "‘Bout, Jesus, five? six? years ago, Jody’s son came back from the grave. Whole buncha people did in Sioux Falls. And then...it got bad. They, uh, they turned violent. And her husband…" Mary’s eyes are wide with horror, and he swallows thickly. “He didn’t make it. And Sam and Jody had to…to her son...and so now…"

"...now she thinks I’m going to do the same,” Mary whispers, filling in the gaps in the narrative. “Her son. I can’t...I can’t even…"

“Yeah.” He draws his knees up and crosses his arms on top of them.

“You don’t think that, do you?”

“What?” He jerks his head to her, nearly giving himself whiplash. “Shit, no, Mom, ‘course not.”

“I don’t _feel_ evil or bad or…"

“You’re _not..._ " He reaches out and takes his mom’s hand resting beside the pillow. “It’s gonna be ok, Mom. We’re gonna get back to Kansas, you’re gonna see Sammy, and you'll meet Cas, and maybe you can talk Sam into cutting his hair because god knows he hasn’t listened to me and, seriously, it’s just getting ridiculous. We're gonna be fine.” He forces himself to smile.

Her other hand emerges from beneath the afghan and wipes a tear from her eye. “So much for moms being the reassuring ones,” she chuckles weakly.

“Yeah, well,” Dean shrugs. He wishes he could say it’s the first time he’s had to comfort a parent, but hell, somehow doing this ended up on his Heavenly greatest hits. “It’s my job.”

Apparently, that’s the wrong thing to say. Mary’s grip tightens on his. “It wasn’t supposed to be.”

“A lot of things weren’t supposed to be,” he mutters, then lets out a long breath. “I’m all right, Mom. Really.”

Releasing Dean’s hand, Mary cards her fingers through his hair. “I love you, Dean.”

It’s been so long since he’s heard those words, and he fights back the tears, telling himself to man up. It doesn’t really work, and his words barely escape his throat, coming out like they’ve been dragged over glass and gravel. “Love you, too.”

They stay that way until Dean eventually begins to fall asleep where he sits, and Mary gently nudges him back to his pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm incapable of writing a fic without including members of the Wayward Daughters. I don't know if Donna will show up, but the rest of the Sioux Falls gang will definitely be making an appearance.


	10. Across the Pond

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Downside of writing this in between seasons and focusing on a character about whom we know little: this is probably going to be completely Jossed. Oh well!
> 
> Also, the character Harris Blackbourne is named for actor [Harris Yulin](http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0950867/); I'm sure any BtVS fans will immediately understand why.

By the time the jet lands on the abandoned (according to the government, that is) military airfield, Toni wishes desperately to see her son, for a long shower, and for a change of comfortable clothing. Perhaps a glass of wine, too.

But, her task is not yet complete.

The afternoon sun is a welcome respite from the stale air of the jet, but Toni doesn’t take a moment to enjoy it, and instead keeps her gun resolutely pointed at Sam Winchester while two of the bodyguards the Men of Letters employ escort him to the Bunker tucked neatly below the pre-existing base’s buildings. Even shackled, the hunter is a threat, and Toni has no desire for a repeat of their adventures in Kansas.

"Huh," Sam comments as he awkwardly makes his way down the steps into their own library. "Like the updates. Sure it’s a good idea to bring me through here? Not going to blindfold me? Not afraid I’ll take all your secrets, share ‘em with other _hunters_?"

"Keep walking," Toni instructs, not deigning to engage.

"Would love to," he replies with mock apology and a gesture to his chained ankles. "But you’re stuck with the shuffle."

Exasperatedly, she huffs, "Do you ever shut up?"

For some reason, the comment seems to hit the Winchester hard and he clenches his jaw. But, mercifully, he does indeed shut up. If she’d heard one more sarcastic comment from the hunter, Toni thinks she may not have been responsible for her actions. Instead, he seems to content himself with studying everything he passes as they lead him to the cells in the lower level.

All of the Men of Letters Bunkers were designed on the same basic blueprint, though with some cultural differences and individual flourishes. To Sam’s eyes, Toni suspects, this Bunker must be a sight. Here, the old coexists quite peaceably with the new: hardwood floors, brick and stone, and shelves upon shelves of books and artifacts that blend almost seamlessly with updated chrome light fixtures and modern technology, such as the wall of flat screen TVs silently broadcasting news from various stations, both national and international. The library is a quiet hub of activity, with members of the organization researching and cataloguing and translating and holding whispered conferences about this text or another.

When she had arrived in Lebanon, Toni had been charmed by the remnants of 1950s technology still scattered about the Bunker and how little the Winchesters seemed to have changed things. Honestly, she’d expected more of a very American bachelor pad that paid little mind to antiquity and tradition, rather than the almost museum-like quality of the Kansas Bunker. Then again, the place _had_ been abandoned for over half a century, whereas the London Bunker (for, despite being nearly an hour from the city in Hampshire, it has always been referred to by the metropolitan name) has been in constant use and has served as the Chapter’s _de facto_ headquarters for at least the past forty years.

The blessed silence from the hunter is broken when they approach the cell.

"Ours is creepier," he observes.

There may be some truth to that. The cell is similarly covered in wards and Devil’s Traps, but beyond that, it more resembles that of a modern prison, rather than a medieval dungeon. The Elders might be stodgy, but they’re not above renovations and spending the organization’s fortunes on the best amenities, if only for the prestige and in competition with the remaining European Chapterhouses.

The bodyguards have just forcefully pushed Sam into a bolted-down chair in the middle of a Devil’s Trap and secured him to it when Harris Blackbourne, the President of the Chapter’s Elder Council, arrives.

"Any problems, Antonia?" His deep voice resounds in the enclosed space and carries with it the weight and authority of his seventy years. "Where’s the other brother?"

"He’s dead, sir," she replies stiffly. "Happened before I arrived."

Harris _hrmphs_ with dissatisfaction, and Toni cannot be sure if it’s directed at her or at Dean Winchester for his untimely death before he could be captured and brought to justice. Most likely, it’s a mixture of the two, but Toni has long abandoned any hope of pleasing the old man.

Marching past her, the Elder approaches Sam, regarding the hunter with the kind of condescension natural to old men of standing such as he.

"Samuel Winchester," he states, though not in greeting, but rather like a scientist identifying an insect.

"It’s Sam."

Toni is almost positive the response is delivered just to be obstinate. Harris simply regards him coldly.

"So, is this the part where you deliver your self-righteous lecture about how I’m a monster who’s destroyed the world, then leave me to rot in here for awhile?"

Not at all perturbed by the hunter’s insolence, Harris answers, "Insults and a lecture will hardly be the least of your worries."

"Awesome. Looking forward to it," Sam smirks, but without any humor. Looking around the room, he snorts. "I spent time in Hell. This is going to be like a vacation."

"That bravado won’t get you anywhere. In fact, it’s why you _are_ here." Harris circles the Devil’s Trap slowly. "Hunters," he scoffs. "Barely literate cavemen."

"Tell that to my Stanford scholarship."

"A university from which you did not graduate." He paces back a step and turns to face Sam. "Yes, we know all about that."

"’Bout time you got something right," Sam retorts, his eyes flicking over Harris’ shoulder to meet Toni’s.

She fights to keep her stare impassive and calm as she remembers their conversation on the plane. Perhaps she had made an error about Henry Winchester, but Sam seriously underestimates the amount of research and information she has painstakingly collected over the years.

"Oh, I think we have a great deal right." The words carry an unmistakable threat in them, which Sam meets with hard and resolute eyes. Harris returns the glare steadily, then leaves the cell. Toni gives Sam one final look, then follows him out, a guard closing the doors with a solid boom of metal on metal.

"Sir, what’s next?" Toni asks once they’re back in the hallway to the library.

"The rest of the Elder Council arrives tomorrow." Stopping to address her face-to-face, Harris adds, "My grandson has missed his mother. You should probably see to him."

The dismissal is quite clear, and she promptly answers, "Of course, sir." Inwardly, she is relieved that his commands and her wishes align for once. Before he can change his mind, she makes her way to the garage where she finds a driver to take her home.

 

Home. Well, that’s a fairly relative term. The Blackbourne estate is spacious and seems welcoming, with warm wooden paneling and large windows, but to Toni, it has become a prison.

_So I gotta wonder: what’s in it for you? Or what do they have over you?_

She knows she shouldn’t let Sam’s words bother her this much, but they had hit far too close to the truth. Shaking herself as free of these thoughts as she can, she enters the house, where Anna greets her just inside the door. The older woman gives her a stern, but concerned, look until Toni assures her that she is just fine.

"How was he?" she asks, shrugging out of her blazer.

"He became a bit tired playing outside yesterday, but nothing to worry about," Anna relays, taking the jacket and folding it over her forearm.

Toni breathes a sigh of relief, then smiles. "Where is he?"

"In his room. He’s all set up with his colouring books at the moment. He said he wanted to draw you something for when you return."

"I’ll be there if anyone needs me." And without another word, she climbs the stairs and makes her way down the long hallway to Isaac’s room.

"Mum!" the boy cries when she enters. Immediately abandoning his crayons, he rushes up to her and she crouches to gather him in her arms.

"Hello, sweetheart," she says into his hair before they pull a little apart. Her thumbs rub small circles onto his shoulders as she looks him over. He seems well: his lips are slightly purple, but no more so than usual, and he seems to be rather full of energy today. "Were you good for Mrs. Anna?"

"Uh huh!" Breaking out of her grip, he returns to his mess of art supplies, fetching a piece of A4 paper and waving it to her. "For you!"

It’s a drawing of, she presumes, the two of them and Anna outside the house, smiling and holding hands. "It’s lovely, Isaac," she smiles, tracing her fingers lightly over the uneven strokes and bright colours.

There was a time when all the doctors had said she would never have this, that Isaac would not make it to his first birthday. And then, when Isaac’s father, Harry (he hated to be called Harris like his own father), had died just before Isaac was due for a critical procedure on his heart…

Debts. It always comes down to debts, she reflects as they go through their evening of colouring and dinner and bedtime stories. First, her parents’ debts that had left her with a title, a legacy, and little else, then, the debts to her son’s grandfather, who had assured Isaac had the best medical care and had given them a place to live. The Men of Letters’ banking and brand of legality is its own nightmare of secrecy and bureaucracy, and that’s before one even considers the tenuous definition of her relationship with Harry; she is a widow in spirit, but not in name or law.  

She brushes the hair back from Isaac’s forehead, then lowers her lips gently to the soft skin, uncreased with worry, smooth with innocence.

Once she is sure he is asleep, she seeks her own sanctuary. She bids Anna good night on her way, and the grey-haired woman gathers her things to retire to her own home until tomorrow.

The door down to the rooms that had once been the London Chapter’s headquarters still bears the Aquarian star, but before she can turn its handle, she hears a step behind her. Spinning, she finds a blade at her throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's so weird writing Sam like this; usually I write him with far less attitude. But, this version of him kind of reminds me of when he's being interrogated in 2x07 "The Usual Suspects."
> 
> Also, I have little experience with congenital heart defects; my description of Isaac is based on one of my sibling's childhood friends. Soooo I make no claim to medical accuracy.
> 
> Finally, I've never been to England, so my references to locations are purposefully vague. If there's an error, let me know. :)


	11. Kids Say the Darndest Things

A foot kicks Dean’s own and he jolts awake, blinking his disorientation. Alex is standing over him with a very teenaged look of judgment. From the light through the curtains, it’s morning, but just barely, and he suppresses a groan.

"What’re you doing here?" the girl asks quietly, and Dean notices that his mom is still asleep on the couch. "And who’s she?"

Dean rubs the sleep out of his eyes, and gets up, quickly checking the fully charged phone on the table. Still no messages.

"Morning to you, too." Heading into the kitchen and hoping Jody doesn’t mind if he raids the place for coffee, he ignores Alex’s questions for the time being, instead commenting, "Aren’t teenagers supposed to sleep in?"

"Not when it’s a Thursday morning and you’ve got school," Alex answers at his heels. "Last week for seniors, though. So, you know, it’s kind of a joke."

"No, I wouldn’t," Dean shrugs, his brain not exactly functioning in high gear yet. "Never made it that far."

"Oh," Alex replies awkwardly, then fishes for a change of topic. "So...Sam is…?"

"Not here. Got separated. We’re on our way back to Kansas." Thankfully, Jody keeps the coffee supplies right in the cabinet over the coffee maker, and Dean works practically on autopilot getting it brewing.

"And the blonde chick is…?"

"My mom."

Alex looks puzzled, and Dean wonders two things: 1) just how much Alex knows about him and Sam, and 2) if the coffee slowly percolating is really going to be enough to get him through the day.

"So, you here just to take up space?"

Dean glares at the girl, but not in any real anger. "Thought you were supposed to be the nice one these days," he grumbles.

She smirks, and Dean wonders why every teenage girl he comes across—and shit, it’s been awhile since he’s heard from Krissy—has a black belt in snark.

"Claire up? Need to talk to her before we head out," Dean says as he pulls a blue mug out of the cabinet. He holds up another one in Alex’s direction in question, but she shakes her head even when he raises an eyebrow.

"Not unless it’s iced and mocha," the girl shrugs, then smiles deviously. "And Claire’s not up yet...but she can be."

And before Dean can stop her, Alex is practically racing up the stairs. He hears a door open, bed springs creak, and a whack that sounds remarkably like a pillow in the face, all to the tune of Alex cheerfully declaring, "Wakey, wakey!" and Claire shouting, "What the hell, Alex?!?"

Dean rolls his eyes, but there’s a part of him that recognizes that that’s _exactly_ what he and Sam would’ve done at their age. Who’s he kidding? If not for all the shit that’s been going down lately, it’s something they would’ve done last week.

Sam still hasn’t forgiven him for ironing his shirts with beer.

Jody comes down the stairs, looking decidedly sleep-deprived in gym shorts and an oversized t-shirt, and she points an accusatory finger at Dean.

"You’re dealing with Claire," she warns him, but he placates the sheriff by handing her the cup of coffee he’d just poured for himself but had yet to enjoy, then fetches two more mugs, as Mary enters a second later, yawning and finger-combing her hair. Jody grunts her approval at the beverage, crosses to the fridge to dig out creamer, then says to Mary, "Sleep ok on the couch?"

"Yes, thank you again." Mary takes the coffee mug from Dean with two hands, staring into its depths for a moment. She looks like she’s about to say something when she looks back up, but they’re interrupted by two teenagers, one all presentable and awake like a real human being, the other shuffling in like an extra on _The Walking Dead_.

 _Ok, bad analogy,_ Dean thinks, considering the circumstances, but he takes it as a good sign that he’s awake enough to come up with the word "analogy." Anyway, Dean can only sympathize with Claire’s obvious disgust at Alex’s energy; no wonder Alex seemed to get along better with Sam. _Freaky morning people…_

Claire, despite her bedhead and bleary eyes, just gives him a look and says, "Let me guess? Something bad and we gotta talk?"

"Uh, hey, Claire," he replies awkwardly. Jody gives him a look that tells him to get his act together, and he nods in the direction of the living room.

Claire sighs. "Fine, but I’m taking coffee."

"Probably a good idea." He turns to Mary. "You ok for a few minutes, Mom?"

From the counter where she’s adding some of the creamer and sugar Jody set out, Mary replies with a fond eye roll, "I think I can handle a cup of coffee on my own, Dean," then looks to sheriff for confirmation.

Jody smiles. "We’re good."

"Well, this looks like fun, but I’m out," Alex declares, grabbing a backpack off of a kitchen chair.

"You’re actually going to school, right? I better not hear it’s Senior Skip Day: Take 3."

"God, Jody. That was _last_ week. And it was just once…"

Dean doesn’t quite hear the rest of Alex’s defense as he goes into the living room, Claire trailing not far behind, having fixed her coffee up to a light tan. He finds his mother has already folded up all the blankets and pillows, stacking them neatly at one end of the couch. Claire takes the other end, while Dean opts for the armchair.

"So—" he starts.

"Let me save you a step: no, I haven’t done anything stupid while hunting, and no, I haven’t heard from _Cas_."

The scornful emphasis on the name cuts at Dean, but he gets it, gets Claire better than she probably realizes or he would want to admit. He’s been trying hard not to be mad at Cas for saying ‘yes’ to Lucifer (and mad at himself for letting it happen, and he's pretty sure he ain't winning that fight), but he wonders if Cas still would’ve done it at all if he could see what his absence would do to them—to Claire. Hopefully, the past few months haven’t erased any goodwill and trust the girl and the angel have managed to build up.

"I’m sorry, Claire—"

Putting the mug down on the aptly named coffee table, she crosses her arms, hugging her body tightly. "You always apologize for him." She jerks her chin to the kitchen, where they can hear Jody and Mary talking in low voices. "So, that’s your mom, huh? Must be nice."

Dean has no defense for that. It’s not like he can say he’s earned having his mom back more than she has; Claire’s just an innocent kid, and she doesn’t deserve any of the shit she’s been through. And Jimmy and Amelia? They definitely gave more than they had to.

 _You were an innocent once, too,_ a voice whispers from the depths of his mind, and he’s surprised that it sounds like Cas. He’s not sure what he was expecting from his subconscious—maybe his mom’s voice, or maybe Bobby’s. But no, it’s the voice of the angel who somehow thinks Dean is worth saving, again and again.

"I can’t bring your mom back. Or your dad," he confesses at last.

"I know." Claire bites her lower lip and fixes those all-too familiar blue eyes on him. "Do you think they’re together?"

It’s not a question he was anticipating, but he nods. "Yeah, I do."

If the star-crossed Winchester-Campbells got a spot together in Heaven before Mary came back, then Dean has no doubt that the Novaks are living the dream upstairs. His answer seems to satisfy her, and her posture relaxes minutely.

"I know you don’t hate Cas, Claire," Dean tries again, and he holds up a hand in defense when she starts to protest. "No, I get it. You’re pissed at him. You got every right to be. Hell, I’ve been there with him, too. But, what he did, why he was away—he made a tough call and a hard decision, and I’m not saying it was the right one, but he did it to help."

"You said that last time," she points out, and it’s true.

"Yeah, well, that’s what Cas does. But he’s back now," Dean says, hoping that’s also true, "and maybe we can make sure the dumb bastard doesn’t pull shit like that again." Despite it all, he can’t keep out the softness in his voice, the way his words are laced with the concern he’s carried with him ever since discovering Cas was in trouble.

Claire’s brow furrows in question.

"Look, I ain’t saying you gotta forgive him right away, but...don’t cut him out, all right?"

"That what you did?"

Damn kids and their damn questions. "We got a lotta water under the bridge,” he evades, “lotta shit to work out."

She snorts. "Great. You two already fight like an old married couple."

Dean gives her a look, but finally replies light-heartedly, "Yeah, you’re probably right," preferring to acknowledge the jab as a joke, and he responds in kind. "And you ‘n Cas are about two arguments and a slammed bedroom door from being a bad family sitcom."

Claire scowls, but Dean’s pretty sure he sees the barest hint of a smile. If anyone else heard him, they’d probably think he’s a jackass for making light of the situation, and while a jackass he might be about a lot of things, he knows Claire well enough by now to know she’d probably prefer the sarcasm—at least, from him, that is; Jody’s probably got the warm fuzzy thing worked out when she’s not pulling the stern mom card.

The teen reclaims the coffee mug and Dean sips from his own, relishing its bitter taste. Whatever brand of coffee Jody buys is a good one, strong and dark.

“Things ok with you here, Claire?”

She considers for a moment, then nods. “Yeah. Classes are going ok. Jody lets me intern at the station a couple hours a week. Alex is a pain, but I guess that’s what little sisters are for.”

Dean snorts a laugh. “Giant little brothers, too. So, sisters, huh?”

Lifting one shoulder, Claire replies, “Killing vampires together’ll do that.”

“Any other hunts?” He doesn’t like the idea of Claire hunting, especially alone, but he also knows she’s not the type to sit by and pretend the monsters aren’t out there.

“Helped Jody with a murder case and an angry spirit.” There’s an unmistakable note of pride in her voice, and he can’t help but feel the same. “Some guy killed his asshole boss, then the boss haunted him and nearly killed him by pushing him down the stairs.”

“Burn the bones?”

“Yep. Broke into the crematorium and salted the body before it went in.”

“Nice." Beats digging up a grave. "Jody know you’re breaking and entering now?”

Claire smirks. “How d’ya think I got in? She went in first, said it was official business, cracked a back door for me for later.”

Dean chuckles, then calls into the kitchen, “Sheriff Mills! You helpin’ out juvies with their petty crimes these days?”

“Can it, Winchester. Don’t think I won’t drum up arrest charges for you,” Jody calls back.

“For what?!”

“I’ll think of something.”

Settling back into the chair, still smiling, Dean catches Claire’s eye, who pouts defensively, “I’m not a juvy.”

Dean nods with a smirk, even though a part of him still can’t believe that Claire is, technically, an adult. “Nope, you get _Orange is the New Black_ now _._ Welcome to the grown-ups’ table.”

“ _Orange is the New Black_ , huh?”

“Shut up.” They grin at each other, and then Dean clears his throat. “You still know you can call if you need anything, right?”

She scoffs dismissively, but Dean isn’t offended in the slightest. “Yeah, I know.”

“Good.”

A light suddenly clicks on in his brain, and he realizes that Jody was right about him and Claire. While he’s distracted by this thought, Claire gets up from the couch, claiming a desperate need for a shower, and Dean replays the conversation through this new lens, his mind unhelpfully focusing on how much time he spent defending Cas to her and _goddammit…_

 _You two already fight like an old married couple_ , Claire had said, and a memory niggles at him until he uncomfortably remembers the last time he heard someone compared that way.

_You guys fight just like brothers. Almost as bad as us._

_Well, it’s more like an old married couple._

And then there had been the way Sam had given him a sidelong glance when he’d asked Jesse and Cesar what it’s like to settle down with a hunter, especially after Sam had asked months before if that’s something ever thought of and he’d denied it vehemently, and... _Fuck my life._

But that's a problem for another day.

Getting up from the couch, he checks his phone again, and sends a text each to Sam and Cas, both along the general lines of "CALL ME." The fact that he hasn’t heard anything from either of them is starting to concern him more and more, and he nearly calls his last resort for information, but decides that it’s probably not the best of ideas while he’s still in Jody’s house; if Jody took issue with his mom, there’s no way she’d be cool with him calling up Crowley, aka. the sheriff’s date from Hell...literally.

He returns to the kitchen, relieved when he sees Jody and Mary talking like old friends at the table, any awkwardness seemingly forgotten. After finishing their coffees, Dean and Mary say their thanks and good-byes to Jody, and Claire makes another appearance, this time showered and looking considerably more awake.

They part in the driveway; Jody is still inside, saying there’s no way she’s going out in public in her pjs, Mary has already slipped into the passenger seat, and Claire faces Dean, the teenage bravado back in full force.

"Maybe I’ll text Cas later," she says with a careless shrug. "Dude owes me a few hundred emoji texts."

"Heh, you, too?"

She gives him a half-smile, and seems about to retreat again, but Dean rolls his eyes and opens up his arms.

"C’mon, don’t make it awkward," he says with a healthy dose of snark.

Claire returns the eye roll, but also returns the hug, muttering, "Dork."

She gives them a small wave as they pull out of the driveway, and Dean watches her until she goes back inside from the rearview mirror.

There’s a look Dean can’t quite define on his mother’s face when he turns his eyes back to the road, but she doesn’t say anything.

The Civic, Dean hates to admit, gets far better gas mileage than his Baby, but no car is invincible, and so they make a stop just outside of Sioux Falls. While Dean refills, Mary goes inside the convenience store, taking the handful of cash from Dean without question, and he's glad he doesn't have to explain his less than legal income.

He replaces the gas cap quicker than he expected, being used to Baby’s huge tank, and sees that Mary is still inside the store. Taking the opportunity, Dean pulls out his phone, jabbing at a contact’s name.

"C’mon, pick up you bastard," Dean murmurs as the phone rings. The gas station door opens, and Mary emerges carrying two bottles of water and some snacks; Dean grimaces—he has no desire for his mother to overhear this conversation, nor does he want the King of Hell to be aware of Mary’s return. But, she has clearly already seen him on the phone, judging from the creased forehead and questioning tilt of the head; if he hangs up now, he’ll just have to answer her questions anyway.

"Whoever you are, you are either incredibly naïve or incredibly stupid to be calling on this phone. If I find you, I will kill you," Crowley’s voice suddenly barks out from the other end of the phone, but the demon hangs up before Dean can even process what was said, never mind respond.

"Sonofabitch."

"Sam or Cas?" Mary asks, nodding at the phone.

"No. Uh...contact. He’s a demon, actually." He’s not entirely sure why he admits that, given her reaction to learning Cas is an angel.

"You have contact with a demon?" Mary doesn’t even bother to disguise the distrust.

"Yeah. Just, um, don’t say anything if I talk to him. I don’t want him to know about you."

"Dean."

He may be a grown-ass man who regularly kills scary shit for a living, but that simple syllable in that tone sends him right back to the day his mom caught him coloring on the walls in his bedroom with crayons.

"Mom, look. It’s a really fu—freaking long story, ok? He’s the King of Hell, but it’s kind of a _Godfather_ situation. You know, friends close, enemies closer. He backed our play against Amara. But the last thing I want is for him to have any more leverage on us."

Mary’s lips purse, but she nods. "If he calls back, I want to listen. If something’s going on, I’m not going in half-blind."

"Fine. Just...don’t take everything he says seriously."

One blonde eyebrow arches, but Dean doesn’t elaborate. Instead, he fires off a text to the demon: _It’s me asshat. Survived chuck n amara...answer the goddamn phone_

Not even ten seconds later, Dean’s phone rings and he puts it on speaker.

"Crowl—"

"Dean? You’re alive?"

"Yeah, I’m alive."

"Fuck. You." Dean raises his eyebrows, unconsciously mimicking Mary’s reaction, but Crowley continues, "I poured out a drink for you. I wasted perfectly good scotch on you and you’re not even dead, you bloody bastard!"

"A whole swig of scotch for me? Really, Crowley, I’m touched," Dean mocks back.

"Wouldn’t be the first time, would it, Squirrel."

Dean can practically hear the leer through the phone, and he purposefully avoids checking Mary's reaction. Skipping past Crowley’s taunt, Dean instead gets to the point of his call. "Is Sam still with you?"

There’s a pause on the other end of the phone, a pause that makes Dean’s stomach threaten to bottom out. "No. He and Castiel fucked off, probably back to that sodding hole in the ground you call home, once we figured you were dead and the world had been saved. Oh, and thanks."

"Dammit," Dean mutters, uncomfortable with what he thinks might be genuine gratitude and concern from the demon.

"Well," Crowley drawls, obviously intrigued that things are far from perfect in Winchester paradise, "as much as I’d love to help you rescue Moose and Feathers from whatever stupidity they’ve inevitably landed themselves in _sans_ supervision, I have a throne to reclaim and protect from the ginger whore otherwise known as my mother. But, do keep in touch, love."

And on that note, while Dean cringes, Crowley hangs up.

"Just ignore him. He’s a douche," Dean tries to deflect automatically. "And he’s like that with everyone."

"A _Godfather_ situation, huh?" Mary comments dubiously. "I don’t remember Michael Corleone pouring one out after the baptism."

Dean blinks in amazement.

"What? I liked those movies." Mary rolls her eyes. "I also liked _The Way We Were_ , if that makes you feel any better."

Strangely, it does. Dean’s never seen the film, but he knows vaguely what it’s about, and the idea jives well with his memories of his mom from when he was a kid. But if she likes _The Godfather_...

"... _Star Wars?_ " Dean asks, thinking of his favorites that she might have seen.

Mary shrugs. "Liked ‘em, but more your dad’s thing than mine. My mom and I would watch _Star Trek_ when I was a kid. But I eventually converted John."

"Mom?"

"Yeah?"

"You’re awesome."

Mary beams, and then promptly kills the bonding moment by bringing up Crowley again. "So, are you friends with the King of Hell, too?"

"No. He’s on our side when it suits him. And he’s actually less terrible than some of the others who’ve wanted to take over." Abaddon, Lucifer...yeah, Crowley’s much better in his book, but then again, the bar’s pretty low. "But he’d screw us over if he got the chance and he benefited."

Mary seems to chew that over, and they get back into the car and peel off towards Kansas. About five miles pass in awkward silence, and Dean doesn’t know what to do or say about it. Finally, his mother breaks, and asks for the one thing he’s dreaded.

"Dean, I know I said you could wait until you’re ready, but...I need to know. I want you to tell me. Everything."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this chapter is a love letter...to coffee.
> 
> (And I don't even like coffee!)
> 
> I'm posting two chapters at once, so carry on, my dear readers. :)


	12. Maternal Instincts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter overlaps with a lot of the previous one, which is why I'm posting them at the same time. But I thought it was time for Mary to have a voice. 
> 
> But make sure you didn't miss the previous chapter!

_They’re_ _together. They laugh and they fight and they cry and they love. Everything from before, it matters so much and yet matters so little. Time is endless and fleeting. Heaven is everything and nothing, a multitude of contradictions that bleed into each other in perfect harmony._

_But they’re together. John looks as she always knew him, full of light and hope, and he looks like the years she missed that weigh heavily on him. They laugh and they fight and they cry, but they love._

_Distantly, she can hear voices, and she knows she should go to them, one in particular. It’s familiar and strange and suddenly John is no longer with her and it’s cold and dark and the grass pricks at her feet and the wind whispers through her nightgown, the nightgown, that nightgown, it should be gone, and she calls out, "Help! Help me!" and…_

Mary’s eyes snap open wide. Above her is a ceiling, not the night sky, and in the next room, she can hear two voices, one deep and comforting—Dean’s—and one young, female, and unknown. Her heart is racing, and she takes slow breaths as she remembers where she is, but the dream, no, the memory, clings to her consciousness. Closing her eyes, she presses the images back along with a few wayward tears.

Her hands need something to do, so she puts them to work folding blankets and pillows, placing them neatly at the end of the couch. She’ll have to ask Jody or Dean where exactly they belong. There are yelps and voices from upstairs, and she assumes that they belong to the teenage girls—Claire and Alex, Mary remembers.

With nothing else to distract her, Mary enters the kitchen, where she finds Dean. He looks so tall and strong and comfortable in this house, and her heart aches for the moments they never had. She searches for traces of the boy she knew, and she finds she doesn’t have too look too hard. Except, instead of stealing cinnamoned and sugared apple slices from the mixing bowl while she rolls out a crust, Dean is making coffee and giving one mug to the sheriff like a peace offering. Mary accepts her own cup, and finds she has so much to say, to each of them. But, before she can voice anything, the two girls appear and Dean disappears into the living room with the blonde one. Claire. The daughter of the angel’s vessel.

She still doesn’t know what to make of that. The memories of Michael and Anna coming for her and John, and Sam and Dean, so broken and desperate, trying to convince her that their world was so bad, so in danger, they’d rather they’d never been born if it would save everyone and stop the madness—she can’t decide if she’s thankful or angry that she never remembered until she reached Heaven.

When Dean asks if she is set while he talks to Claire, Mary of course assures him she is, but she looks to Jody, wondering what she could even possibly say to the sheriff now that they’re alone together.

"Haven’t hit the store yet this week, so I don’t have much for breakfast, but I can make toast like a pro," Jody offers, breaking the silence. Mary cautiously smiles, and Jody gets to work. "Pull up a chair. They’re probably going to be a while."

"Is there anything I can do?"

Jody holds up two packaged loaves of bread. "Other than telling me if you want Italian or whole wheat, not really."

"Italian," Mary answers, then takes the proffered seat at the table.

"Good choice," Jody comments, pulling out two slices of the Italian and two slices of the whole wheat. "My friend Donna’s been on a health kick and keeps kicking my butt to eat better. So I got the cardboard bread."

While the bread toasts, Jody leans back against the counter, drinking her coffee like her life depends on it. The silence is tense, until Mary decides to bite the bullet.

"You don’t trust me," she says quietly. "I’m sorry about...this."

At that moment, the toaster dings, and Jody pulls out the bread, bringing it to the table on a plate while balancing a butter knife and a jar of orange marmalade. She sits across from Mary and looks her straight in the eye.

"I trust the boys. If Dean says you’re good…" Jody shrugs. "Dean and Sam have pulled my ass out of the fire a few times, they’ve saved a lot of people, and I’m just glad I’ve been able to return the favor once or twice. We're good."

"Thank you."

Pushing the plate over, Jody only replies, "C’mon, grab a piece before it gets cold. Don’t want my culinary masterpiece to go to waste."

Mary obeys, and they eat companionably for a few minutes. She can’t make out the words coming from the living room, but she can hear the general rumble of voices. "Dean’s good with her."

Jody nods. "They’re both good with the girls. Sam’s kind of got the mentor, big-brother vibe going for him—I think he likes being the older one for a change. Dean’ll say he hates the touchy-feely crap, but…"

The sheriff gives her a knowing smile, and Mary returns it, but really, she doesn’t know. Not the way Jody seems to.

The other woman studies her for a moment, then says, "It’s funny, when Dean and Sam were here last time, I told Dean it was hard, taking in the girls. I didn’t raise them, don’t have that history with them. They came to me broken and closed off and I wasn’t exactly in the best place, either. But we made it work. It took a long time, a lot of arguments and push back, but, we made our own history."

Mary knows the sheriff isn’t just talking about Alex and Claire, and she lets the words sink in. "I don’t know what I’m doing," she confesses. "I saw them, when they were this age—"

"You did?"

"Time travel. And—" She cuts off, unsure how to describe the faded memories of her spirit, chained to the Lawrence house, desperate to save the young family and her grown boys from the evil lurking in the walls.

Jody, however, either doesn’t notice or chooses to ignore the abandoned thought, and snorts. "Time travel. Figures. You get a chance, ask Dean what 1944 was like. That’s a good story."

"1944?"

"Yeah. Like I said, ask Dean, though. Sam and I were stuck in the boring old 21st century."

Mary is the one who snorts this time. "Boring? Dean has a phone with a TV screen that fits in my palm and he tells me he can look up anything on it. When it’s working, that is."

"Huh," Jody remarks, in thoughtful consideration. "Culture shock and a half, I bet." But the levity doesn’t last, and Jody straightens up in her chair and soberly tells her, "You’ll be ok. Sam and Dean? They turned out good."

"I’m not who I was back then, and yet...I am. And they’re not the little boys I remember. What if..." _What if I can’t be who they want me to be?_ The words die before they leave her tongue, but Jody seems to supply the rest.

"It doesn’t matter. You’re their mom, and you’re here. That’s the most important thing."

"I hope so."

The conversation breaks as Dean’s voice calls out gleefully from the other room, "Sheriff Mills! You helpin’ out juvies with their petty crimes these days?"

"Can it, Winchester. Don’t think I won’t drum up arrest charges for you," Jody replies without missing a beat.

"For what?!"

"I’ll think of something." Taking her second slice of toast and reaching for the butter knife, Jody says to Mary, "And if you ever need a break from Boys Town, you know where to find me...probably with a glass of wine."

In spite of everything, Mary feels a smile on her lips. "I think I could do that."

Not long after, they’re preparing to leave Sioux Falls and Jody’s hospitality.

"Don’t be a stranger," Jody tells them. "And you better bring Sam ‘round next time. I’ll try not to scar you for life over dinner."

"Needed therapy after that one," Dean teases, and Mary wonders about that story.

"Yeah, yeah," Jody answers, hugging Dean, and then turns to Mary. They hesitate, but ultimately embrace as well. "Good luck," the sheriff tells her quietly.

"You, too," Mary smiles. "And thank you. For everything."

Jody waves them off, and they head to the car, which Mary notices that Dean regards with disdain and reluctant acceptance. He might look more like her and her mother’s side of the family, but in that moment, he’s all John. Smiling to herself, she remembers John’s excitement over the Impala when he bought it, and in retrospect, she can’t believe she nearly convinced him to buy the VW bus.

She settles herself into the car, and her heart flips with a mother’s pride and love as she watches Dean and Claire talk, and she feels her vision mist when she catches the girl fondly roll those blue eyes when her son opens his arms to her. She’s tempted to say something when he climbs into the driver’s seat with affected gruffness, but finds she’d rather let the moment stand.

 

 

When she emerges from the store at the gas station, she sees Dean with his back mostly to her, his hand pressing that phone of his to his ear. She knows he’s concerned they haven’t heard from Sam or Cas, and a coil of fear twists in her gut, and she hopes her youngest son is safe. Trying to tell herself that she’s silly to worry and that to do so will only feed Dean’s own fears, she approaches the car, and asks who he’s calling as casually as she can.

What follows is perhaps one of the stranger phone calls she’s ever listened to, but even that thought fights for prominence over the knowledge that her son is on speaking terms with a _demon_ , and not just any demon, but _the King of Hell_ , apparently.

Dean’s shoulders tighten as he trades barbs with the demon, whose raspy British accent practically oozes with innuendo and euphemism, and even though Dean has told her to ignore that, she wonders just how close this demon actually is to her boys. After all, Dean seems to already consider an angel family.

The thought is troubling, and Mary tries to make some light of the situation and push away her suspicions, and they talk films and TV shows for a minute. She finds it amusing how surprised Dean seems when she mentions her love of sci-fi, until she reflects that the only image he has of her is one that he painted as a little boy, when she was simply a stay-at-home mother who had never heard of the supernatural.

There’s so much they don’t know about each other, and she knows too well how dangerous secrets can be.

The South Dakota highway stretches before them under a clear blue sky, but the silence cannot stretch any longer.

"Dean, I know I said you could wait until you’re ready, but...I need to know. I want you to tell me. Everything."


	13. The Flag of Humanity

Landing, employing another brief burst of Grace to get through Customs (although, since resting, this goes far more smoothly), waiting in lines (or queues, to use the local vernacular), acquiring a rental car (Eileen asks Cas to handle this, saying it “isn’t worth the hassle" of trying to explain to people that yes, Deaf people can drive cars; Castiel thinks he does considerably well given his only real knowledge of cars is the Impala and his own Continental), navigating said car from Heathrow Airport to the coordinates in Eileen’s grandfather’s journal (the presumed headquarters; they decide that since it is closer, it makes more sense to start there)...

In short, Castiel is once again reminded of just how time consuming being a human is, how frustratingly complex and tedious _everything_ is. At least, he reflects, he is not completely human and therefore does not have to go back to urinating again. There are many things that he oddly does miss from being a human—the rich tastes and flavors of food, for instance—but there are certain bodily functions that he is just as happy to let his Grace take care of.

But his and Eileen’s trials and tribulations post-disembarkment are ultimately successful. They think. The house at the coordinates looks stately enough to hold the headquarters of the Men of Letters, but so far there has been little activity.

“It’s probably hidden,” Eileen says from the passenger seat as they observe on their “stake out"; Castiel is unsure why she had looked amused when he had called it such.

He nods his response, and his attention then ticks up as a sleek black car with tinted windows passes through the gates and approaches the house. The driveway is short, giving them a good vantage point from where they sit on a side road that meets the main road almost exactly across from the house.

A figure emerges from the car, and Castiel immediately turns to Eileen. “That’s her.” He may have only glimpsed her briefly before the banishment, but he is certain that the woman is the same.

“What now?” she asks.

Castiel waits in his response, straining to see some sign of Sam. But, the woman seems to be the car’s only passenger, and she quickly disappears behind the thick wooden doors. Despair threatens to engulf Castiel. _If Sam is not here, where have they taken him? What have they done to him? What if he escaped before and this entire journey has been for nothing? What if he has been killed?_ The questions whirl and churn in his mind until Eileen jolts him back to the present.

“Cas? What now?”

Without a word, Castiel opens the driver’s door, and he is about to charge forth, but Eileen’s firm hand catches his other arm.

“Cas!”

He stops, even though he could easily overpower her and continue towards the house. Closing his eyes for a moment, he finds his center. _Now is not the time to be reckless, Castiel_ , he tells himself.  _You are no good to Sam dead or injured or captured._

“We need a plan.” Eileen releases his arm once she seems sure he isn’t about to bolt again. “If Sam isn’t here, we need to find out where he is.”

“You’re right,” he tells her once he is seated again and facing her. “What do you suggest?”

 

 

There is a single light from an upstairs window and a faint glow from a lower one by the time Castiel and Eileen make their move. They watch as an older woman climbs into a respectable sedan and leaves the premises, and then they enter. Although much of Castiel’s remaining energy has been restored (even if, until Heaven opens again, he cannot access his full powers), he still feels the drain as he makes the guard slip into unconsciousness.

Quietly, they steal into the house, and Castiel is relieved that the warding is for demons and other monsters; Enochian seems to be left off of the defenses. He frowns, but not in complaint. It's a curious oversight, considering their obvious familiarity with angels. Then again, the warding looks old and as much a part of the structure as the beams and floors, and when the house was built, angels had not made their presence on Earth widely known in thousands of years. He moves gingerly; the fresh cuts on his abdomen, just below the Enochian tattoo, sting, and he pushes back his Grace’s natural impulse to heal them.

During their planning, Eileen had sensibly asked about the banishing sigil, and if there was anyway to avoid that. Castiel had thought for a moment, then made his angel blade manifest in his hand. Lifting his shirt, he had carved with quick and sure strokes into the skin, for blood magic must be countered with the same. In truth, it is the combination of three sigils. The first is like the locking symbol a demon might use to bind themselves to a body. The second is an Enochian symbol for Earth, carrying with it a binding to the ground and this plane of existence; such an intent would also prohibit the use of his wings for flight, had he the power to do so, which is why it is likely no other angel has ever attempted this. The third is his own, a unique identifier for him, Castiel. It is one that he has rarely used; as part of the Host, as part of a multitude, angels have little call for individual expression and assertion. To show any of those traits is to be considered dangerous, a potential for rebellion and subordination.

 _Honestly, I think you came off the line with a crack in your chassis,_ Naomi had once told him. _You have never done what you were told._

Perhaps. Or perhaps Castiel is the one angel who has done, has always done, what he was told. Time and again, he’s been accused of abandoning his brethren, for choosing humans—the Winchesters, Dean—over Heaven. But isn’t that what his Father wanted them to do? Why He cast out Lucifer?

Bitterly, he thinks of his Father’s attempt at reconciliation with his brother, a conversation for which Castiel was completely aware. How could Lucifer have earned God’s forgiveness, his _apology_? And then, when Amara ripped Lucifer from Castiel's body, God had made no such declarations to Castiel, the angel who had always believed in his Father’s vision, had fought and rebelled for and in defense of humanity, had searched for him with the ardent faith and belief that he would help set the world aright. Perhaps his own sins, his own mistakes, were too great for even God to forgive. 

But does that matter, in the end? God made his decision, and Castiel had made his. He had chosen free will, so many years ago. Now he reaps the benefits, and the consequences. It's a choice he does not regret, and would make again and again.

And now God is gone, and Castiel is again left with no mission except for the one Dean has left for him. The Winchesters have done so much for him, have shown him time and again why humanity is important, why the original purpose of the angels is correct and good. And now there is only one left, and Castiel is determined to ensure that his friend is safe and whole and free.

With this resolve, Castiel steps into the foyer. Even in the near dark, Castiel can tell the interior of the home is richly appointed, but not garishly so. They move swiftly and silently through the rooms, looking for some sign of the Men of Letters’ presence. Their only light comes from the distant front parlor, and Castiel allows some of his angelic senses to over take his body’s. He knows he has to be careful, but this doesn’t require much energy.

Eileen turns to him, and her own eyes, which she points to, go wide in surprise, and she makes the sign for “glowing.”

“Night vision,” he tells her, even if it is not a wholly accurate description of how an angel's sight works. She nods with a smile of understanding, and they continue their search.

Footfalls on the stairs. Touching Eileen on the shoulder, he quickly signs, “Someone is coming,” and points up to the second floor. They retreat into the shadows of an open doorway, which reveals what appears to be a small reading room with a piano at one end. The footsteps come closer and closer, and Castiel tightens his grip on the angel blade. Beside him, her eyes flicking constantly between the door and to Castiel for clues, Eileen grips the ceramic knife she’d smuggled onto the flight.

“It’s not the best,” she’d shrugged when she’d unsheathed it from where it had been concealed in what Castiel believes is a curling iron or some other hair styling tool; his associations with the Winchesters have not provided him much exposure to the baffling world of hair care. “But it’ll do.” Castiel had nodded in approval, for the weapon and for its ingenuity.

The person stops across the hallway from them in front of a door they would have seen next, had they not ducked into this room. His human eyes would not have been able to pick out the symbol carved into the door with so little light, but unencumbered by such limitations, Castiel now sees that it is an Aquarian star. More importantly, the person at the door is none other than the woman he has tracked from Kansas.

Fluidly, he steps from the room, raising his blade just as the woman turns. Its silvery point is inches from her throat, and his other forearm pins her back against the door.

“Cassiel,” the woman greets him, far less disturbed than Castiel would like, but he can still detect fear behind the mask of calm. “Here for Sam, I’m assuming? I really thought it would take you far less time to find me.”

He’s taken aback by the error in name. Cassiel was one of his sisters, long ago, who died during Lucifer’s first rebellion; the Morningstar was swift in his destruction of those who opposed him. But, thinking of the spellwork carved into his skin, particularly of the third part of the symbol, he does not correct her; names have power. 

“Where is he?” he growls instead. Behind him, he can hear Eileen step forward and adopt a defensive position, most likely on the lookout for anyone else who might approach.

The woman smirks. “This,” she raises a hand and calmly indicates the blade, running a finger along its length before dropping her hand to her side again, “is hardly conducive to honest discussion.”

“Honest discussion?” he scoffs. “Is that what you call your methods?”

“Not at all. That was merely business. Nothing personal.”

“Where. Is. Sam?” The blade moves closer to her throat, almost near enough to prick the skin.

A slap of hand on wood and a flash of light. The woman and Eileen both flinch from the burst of bright white, closing their eyes, but Castiel does not move. He feels the spell pull at him, the counterspell fight back, and then nothing.

“How…?” the woman stammers, her composure finally cracking. Castiel had not been unaware of her motivations when she raised her hand to the angel blade, just simply unconcerned, and possessed with a somewhat irrational and possibly fatalistic desire to see if his ploy would work.

“You will not banish me again. But you will tell me what I want to know.”

“And why would I do that? So that you and Sam and other hunters—" Looking over his shoulder, she says to Eileen with prim condescension and false cheer, “Hello, by the way. Lady Toni Bevell. Pleasure, I’m sure—can continue to bring the world to its breaking point? What will it be next time? What Eldritch horror? How many innocent lives will be lost, thanks to careless hunters?”

There’s a particular and personal anger in her words, and Castiel wonders whom she has lost. But to hear the Winchesters and their never-ending battle to do a little good so maligned ignites in Castiel a rage he has not felt in a long time.

“And how many innocent lives would _not_ have been saved if it were not for the Winchesters?” He can feel his eyes glowing even more, and he gathers himself to his full height to tower over her.

“Cas.” Eileen’s voice is calm, but there’s a warning lacing it. He turns to the hunter. “We might need her.”

He lowers his shoulders and takes a single step back from Lady Bevell, enough to take away the immediate threat of death, but not enough to give her any openings for escape.

“I have already lost one today,” he says, his voice quieter. “Dean died to save _all_ of us.” The firmness of his voice returns as Lady Bevell regards him carefully. “Sam Winchester would do, and has done, the same. I lost one today. I _refuse_ to lose another.”

The woman seems to regain some of her calm authority, and she retorts, “If Dean died saving the world, it’s only because he broke it in the first place.”

“The Winchesters will be judged—and have been judged,” he says in a low and dangerous rumble, “but not by you.”

Above him, Castiel hears something creak, and then a small voice calls out, echoing in the expanse of the home, “Mommy?”

Lady Bevell’s eyes grow wide, and she calls out, “Stay there, sweetheart. I’ll be up in a moment.” She looks to Castiel and Eileen in challenge and in fear.

“We would not hurt your child,” he tells her. “We are not the monsters you believe us to be.”

“Why would you care?” she bites out. “You’re not even human.”

He studies her coolly. “If you do not know the answer to that question, then you do not know anything at all.”

Eileen steps forward, and Castiel allows her to take over. “I don’t know you,” she says, “and I don’t care. But I know Sam, and we’ll find him, whether you help us or not.” Raising her knife, she adds, “It’ll probably be easier if you help.”

Whether it’s a true change of heart or perhaps the realization that she is currently outmatched, Castiel does not know, but Lady Bevell nods. “All right. But he’s not here.”

“The Bunker?”

“Yes,” she says slowly and in surprise at their knowledge.

Castiel looks to Eileen in silent agreement that they should go there before it’s too late. But, he knows he can’t leave Lady Bevell to follow them, and so he raises a hand to put her to sleep.

“This won’t harm you,” he tells her.

“Wait!” He stops, his hand halfway to her forehead. “You’ll need my help. I can get you in.”

Eileen, who has been following Lady Bevell’s words through lip-reading, quickly signs to Cas, “Should we trust her?”

“We may not have another choice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dunno why, but this chapter fought me. Maybe it's because I crinked my neck really badly last night (how??? I was just sleeping! Ugh) so I was super uncomfortable all day...anyway...I hope it doesn't show.


	14. Dashboard Confessional

_Everything._

The word echoes across the the gap between their two seats, across the gap between now and that night in November thirty-three years ago.

Dean’s quiet for at least another three miles. Where does he even start? How does he even _begin_ to explain what he’s done, what he's been through? And Sammy? There are parts of the story that just aren’t his to tell.

And suddenly, something Mary had said last night, about what she knows, what she’s already been told by John in Heaven, sparks in his mind and he jerks the car over to the shoulder, indifferent to the wailing of the horn of the Escalade behind them, and he explodes.

“What do you want to hear, Mom? What, how Dad dragged us around the country, living out of shitty motels and apartments? How I was more used to holding weapons than toys by the time I was ten? How Sammy left for college and then Dad went off hunting the demon that killed you and I dragged Sammy back to this craphole life and ever since then it’s been one fucking world-ending disaster after another? How we’ve been fucked over by Heaven and Hell and every monster in between and we let the Devil out of his Cage not once but fucking _twice_ and on an Armageddon scale that’s just one of the highlights on a list that's got popping Purgatory and unleashing the goddamn Darkness? Or how about that I spent forty years in Hell and I tortured souls for ten of ‘em and even that doesn’t compare to Sammy’s tour down there and the shit he went through 'cause he manned up and threw himself and Lucifer into the Pit to stop the Apocalypse? Or maybe you wanna know how me 'n Cas spent a year in Purgatory killing monsters that look like your worst nightmare and, oh yeah, my best bud down there was a vampire? What about how I fucked up taking the Mark of Cain and became a Knight of Hell and palled around with fucking Crowley for a summer—and that’s before I turned human again and nearly killed Sam and Cas because the Mark was killing me inside out? How Jody and the girls are some of the only friends we have left because knowing us is a goddamn death sentence and it’s practically a miracle we haven’t gotten them killed yet like everyone else we've ever cared about? Is that what you want to know?”

He’s breathing heavily as he finishes, and he knows he was practically yelling, but he’s not mad at his mom, though judging from her expression, she looks like she’s not sure.

“Fuck.” Jerking the keys out of the ignition, he gets out of the car. He paces back and forth, his hands fighting between rubbing the tears threatening to spill and wanting to punch something, anything. He doesn’t look up from the ground, doesn’t turn around, when he hears Mary’s door open and her boots, hard on the highway tar, approach.

 _No, Mom, not now..._ He doesn’t want to face her: he can’t stand to see her disappointment, her judgment.

The boots come in front of him and two hands reach up and cup his face. Mary gently forces him to look her in the eye, and she’s not even trying to hold back the tears. But there’s no disappointment, no judgment, just profound sadness. She brings his head to her shoulder and he just lets her hold him, not even caring that they’re standing at the edge of the highway for all the world to see him break down and need his mother like a goddamn _kid_.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles into her jacket's collar.

“Me, too,” she answers softly.

After another minute, Dean finally steps back, scrubbing a hand over his face once more. “I know you said...you said growing up in this life was the worst thing you could imagine for us. We let you down.”

“No, Dean, you didn’t.”

“Mom—" he protests, but she cuts him off.

“How many people have you saved, Dean? How many times have you and Sam kept the world from ending? How many dreams for yourself have you pushed away because you needed to help someone else?”

He doesn’t answer. Does he even have one? 

“I was nineteen when I said that. Should we hold you to everything you said when you were nineteen?” she says, teasing gently, even though her words are still thick with emotion.

“God, no,” he huffs, but the corner of his mouth ticks up slightly.

“I was angry at my dad, at my mom, that I couldn’t be _normal_ , that I was hiding a whole life from John, and he was sweet and kind and made me think I could pretend there was nothing evil out there,” she continues. “I wasn’t brave, Dean. Not like you. Not like Sam. Do I wish you could have had normal lives? That there wasn’t anything bad out there? Of course, but that’s not reality. I’m proud of you. So proud.”

“We screwed up, Mom. A lot. The shit we’ve done…"

She opens up her arms, gesturing to the horizons. “The world’s still here, Dean. Because of you and Sam.”

“Maybe,” he finally allows, if only because somewhere along the line he developed an allergy to praise and he fucking hates how much he wants it and needs it and he feels raw and flayed and like he’s grasping desperately at the crumbling walls that have held him up so long. "Fuck."

He jingles the keys in his hand contemplatively, and then they return to the car. Just after he merges back onto the highway, Mary says, “I shouldn’t have asked. Not like that.”

"’S ok, Mom.” But it isn’t.

“No, it isn’t,” she replies as if she can read his mind and he sincerely hopes that Amara’s resurrection didn’t endow her with that fun surprise. “It wasn’t all bad, was it?”

“No,” he says at last. His breathing is steadier now, but his hands are gripping the wheel like he's afraid it's gonna fall off if he doesn't hold it up.

“Tell me something good. Tell me about Sam.”

He hesitates. Talking about Sam is something he could do all day: how fucking proud of the kid he is, how even when shit got bad, it’s always been the two of them against the world. But somehow, that doesn’t seem fair. Growing up, the only things that Sam knew about their mother came from Dean or their dad; he never got to know her on his own terms.

“Nah, I can’t do that. You’re gonna see him as soon as we get back. I know he’s gonna want to see you. He doesn't need me telling you all his embarrassing stories. Trust me, though, I got plenty."

Looking over at Mary, Dean feels a little guilty when he catches the disappointment on her face, but she recovers quickly. “I suppose I can wait,” she answers. “Ok, something else good. How about Cas?”

There’s a cautious neutrality in her voice as she says the name, but Dean takes it as win that she’s asked at all. Maybe it’s a good thing to prep her about Cas, make her see that he’s one of the good ones—especially if the dude plans on sticking around.

But Dean knows where those kinds of doubting thoughts lead, and so he instead considers his mother’s question. She already knows Cas pulled him out of Hell and that he’s had their backs more times than Dean can count. But he gets the sense that that’s not what his mother’s asking about.

“Well,” he says at last, “the dude looks like a nerdy little guy. Suit, trenchcoat, tie that’s never on right, and next to Sam, he looks like a midget. But he’s fucking badass. He carved a banishing spell into his own chest once so he could take out a room of angels.”

“He did that to other angels?”

“Yeah. If you think our family dynamics are fucked up, we got nothing on Cas’. They’re pretty much all dicks.”

“But not Cas.”

“He can be a dick when he wants to be, but no, not really.” He smirks to himself. “But yeah, the nerd thing is there, too. He bought Claire this stuffed grumpy-looking cat toy for her birthday last year, and he uses ‘air quotes’ when he talks.”

Mary raises an amused eyebrow when Dean demonstrates with his own air quotes. “Somehow stuffed animals and air quotes got left out of the Bible’s version,” she remarks.

“You shoulda seen Gabriel,” he mutters. He wonders if she should be telling his _mom_ this, but then decides, screw it, it’s funny. “Dude gave us a message about how to stop the Apocalypse by sending us a porno. That he was in." Mary's jaw drops. "Yeah, that Gabriel. _The_ Gabriel.”

“Please tell me that’s not something that’s common among angels,” she frowns, but she’s biting back a laugh.

Dean snorts. “Nah. Just him and this other angel, Balthazar. Cas once got kicked out—" Ok, maybe the brothel incident is a step too far. Mary looks like she’s about to ask him about the abandoned train of thought, but Dean decides to head that off at the pass with a different story. Plus, this one's got Sammy in it, kinda, so that’ll make his mom happy. “Cas is kinda clueless about a lot of human stuff. So last year, we’re—me, Sam, Cas, our friend Charlie—sitting around eating pizza, drinking beer, and Charlie makes one of those paper fortune teller things you make as kids, right? And we’re all a few beers deep and I dunno why Charlie made it in the first place, but she gets Cas to do the pick a color, pick a number thing, and you woulda thought this thing was holding the secrets to the universe or would decide the fate of the planet, he was taking it so seriously.”

Mary smiles. “What was his fortune?”

“I dunno. Charlie put dumb crap in ‘em. I think he got the one that said, ‘You will become a stripper named Sparkles McGee.’ Like I said, we’d had a few by that point.”

There’s laughter in her eyes, and Dean’s relieved that the suspicions have largely faded away, at least for the time being. He knows he’s done a shit job recently of making sure Cas know he’s wanted and needed more than just for his angelic kicking ass and taking names skills, but he also knows if Cas thinks Mary doesn’t trust him, he’ll fuck off to Chuck knows where.

“So, Charlie? What’s she like?” Mary prompts, and Dean suspects from the slightly teasing inflection on the pronoun that the question isn’t as innocent as it appears.

But, the question also makes Dean realize that the night of the fortune teller was the last time they saw Charlie and were happy before…

“She’s, uh, she’s gone,” he answers quietly.

“Oh, I didn’t know,” Mary apologizes. “I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, me, too,” he breathes out slowly, sniffing and fixing his eyes on the blacktop ahead, pretending the squint is from the sun.

“You two were close.” It’s not a question.

“Yeah, but, uh, just as friends. She was like the little sister we never had. ‘Sides, not exactly her type, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh.” Mary sighs. “I didn’t want to make this sad again.”

“Welcome to my life.”

But, even though he’s lost so many, Mary is right: it wasn’t all bad. And Charlie wouldn’t want him to focus on the bad. Neither would Bobby, or Kevin, or Ellen, or Jo, or… Thinking of his mom’s story last night, the one about the soufflé that ended up looking like it sprang up from the black lagoon, he decides he might as well give that a shot. It’s a better way to honor their memories.

“All right, Mom,” he says with as much levity as he can muster. “You want stories? The good ones? I can do that.”

“Jody said I should ask you about 1944.”

He grins. He’d actually been planning to tell the story about LARPing, since they were on the topic of Charlie, but it’s a long drive and they’ve got plenty of time. Plus, Jody’s got a point: it’s a good one. “Oh, man, I forgot about that. That was awesome. Ok, so…"

 

 

Several hours, a few fast-food burgers, and many stories later (and still no answer from Sam and Cas, and Dean is _really_ trying not to think about that), they’re rolling up to the Bunker. Mary’s still chuckling about the fact that in an alternate universe, some dude who looks just like him, and apparently plays him on TV, was also in a soap opera. It was either that or tell her about the time they ended up on a Japanese gameshow and Sammy didn’t fare so well, but Dean’d decided he wasn’t _that_ much of a douche of a brother. What can he say? He’s a swell guy.

“Oh my god, you still have the Impala?!” she gasps at the same time Dean grumbles, “I’m gonna kill Sammy,” because what’s the point of having a garage if you’re just going to leave Baby outside all night? Sure, she’s a tough ol’ girl who can take it, but _still_. He told Sammy to take care of her. It was his _dying wish_.

Mary practically bounds out of the Civic and over to Baby, lovingly running a hand over the glossy black paint. Chuckling fondly, she turns back to Dean. “I couldn’t believe it when your father brought this thing home. Nearly killed him.”

Dean scratches the back of his head. “Actually, that’s my fault.” Mary looks at him, puzzled. “Uh, when I went back to 1973, I ran into Dad about to buy the van. I’m the one who talked him into buying Baby.”

“Baby?”

He smiles. Dad had always just called the car the Impala. “Yeah, she’s my girl. Built her up from the ground a few times. She’s the closest thing to a home me ‘n Sammy had.” Mary frowns at that, but Dean continues, “No, it’s ok, Mom. Baby’s gotten us through a lot. Wouldn’t trade her for anything.”

His mother regards the car again, this time an added layer of fondness in her hand running over the hood, as though thanking the car. Finally, she looks up, and peers at the abandoned factory as though she’s just noticed it.

“You live _here_?”

He had purposefully delayed explaining the Bunker to Mary, wanting her to get the same kind of awe he and Sam had had when they’d first discovered it. “Yeah,” he says excitedly. “So there was this group called the Men of Letters—"

“Men of Letters? I thought they were gone,” Mary interrupts. “My father mentioned them once or twice—said they were stuck up bastards in ivory towers.”

“He wasn’t wrong,” Dean nods, thinking of the Campbell family library. If he were a betting man—and how convenient, he _is_ —he’d bet it pissed Samuel Campbell off royally how much info the Men of Letters had squirreled away somewhere. “Anyway, here’s the kicker: Dad’s dad? Henry Winchester? He was one of them.”

He holds open the door and lets Mary in.

“John’s father was a Man of Letters? But John said—" Mary’s words cut off when she reaches the edge of the balcony looking over the map table, and Dean smirks from behind her, thinking she’s probably impressed with the place. “Dean…?”

That’s not an impressed voice. He follows her gaze downwards and sees what’s caught her attention. A bloodstain. One that certainly wasn’t there before they left to confront Amara.

Dean pushes past Mary and down the stairs. “Sam? SAMMY? CAS?” he calls out, his stomach clenching.  _No no no no this isn’t supposed to happen not now not with Mom back and…_ He crouches to inspect the bloodstain; it isn’t large, at least, and Dean guesses that if it’s Sam’s blood, he’s probably not dead. “SAM!”

He gets up and rushes into the library. Behind him, he can hear Mary following, and she nearly crashes into him when he skids to a stop. A dark red banishing sigil is carefully painted onto the wall, and even though he knows Cas isn’t in the Bunker, he still calls out, praying that maybe the angel can hear him, “CAS!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mini vacation, so new chapter on Thursday (hopefully)!
> 
> Fun fact about this chapter: Dean says "fuck" (or some variation thereof) 8 times, and thinks it 4 more.
> 
> Also, ILostMyPenInMyHair, I hope I didn't disappoint. Not quite the whole story in Dean's words, but I hope I captured enough. :)


	15. Breakout Character

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chronologically, some of this chapter overlaps with the events of previous chapters.

In one of Sam’s pre-law classes a million lifetimes ago, a professor had assigned—randomly, it had seemed—a short story for them to read. It was “The Yellow Wallpaper” by Charlotte Perkins Gilman, and at first, Sam had wondered if the story about a woman slowly losing her mind as she stared at the titular wallpaper in her bedroom was going to be used as an intro to insanity pleas during trials. Instead, the professor had paralleled the woman’s story of being relegated to doing nothing in her room to deal with (most likely) post-partum depression with studies on the effects of solitary confinement on prisoners and whether the practice should be considered torture.

A few hours into staring at the symbols and warding on the otherwise plain grey walls of his cell, unable to move from the chair to which he’s been shackled, he’s starting to get it.

He almost feels bad for locking Crowley in their dungeon for so long.

Almost.

But what does it matter?

Dean’s gone.

Cas is...not here.

The world’s been saved, but the only other people who know that it was ever _really_ in danger have decided that he and Dean and Cas are a menace to society.

Because fuck them.

He remembers Dean’s resentment of Henry when they first met and the disdain with which Henry had regarded them because they were hunters. But, at the same time, Sam had been intrigued with the idea of the Men of Letters and could almost forgive Henry his douchiness considering that the world hadn’t completely gone to shit in his time (Abaddon’s sudden appearance notwithstanding), and so there probably hadn’t been such a desperate need in the hunting community for the information and knowledge and resources the Men of Letters had had stashed away and only disseminated to a few “trusted hunters.”

Finding the Bunker had been a revelation. He could only imagine how Bobby would’ve reacted to having all of that knowledge at his fingertips whenever a hunter called for advice on a case. How maybe they could’ve done more or sooner to stop the Apocalypse or Azazel or the Leviathan or all the other shit they’ve been through.

Finding out that there were _still_ Men of Letters chapters out there and knowing that they had done _nothing_ but sit back with their books while the world burned and then had the fucking gall to say that Sam and Dean are the problem…

Again, fuck them.

He can only imagine how ripshit Dean would be right now.

Then again...considering how Dean reacted to discovering Chuck was God and that God had sat back and let humanity and the angels fail again and again…

Sam had expected anger, rage, but instead, Dean had broken.

And yet, when push came to shove, his brother had stepped up, like he always does, and said he’d do it, he’d put himself on the line to save everyone.

But now he’s gone and the only people who really know and actually care are Sam and an angel who’s been banished to fucking who knows where and…

The cell opens and the old man who’d taunted him before steps in, looking crisp and professional like he just walked out of a board meeting. Sam realizes he never did get the guy’s name, but other than for any possible advantage that could be gained from knowing, he also realizes he doesn’t actually give a shit who this guy is.

“Come for the nice change of scenery?” Sam asks, gesturing with his head to the cell, because his mouth just refuses to shut up or connect with his brain and he just doesn’t even fucking care anymore. “Or is it just because you missed me and my pretty face?”

The man’s mouth twitches into a half-smile, but there’s no humor in it, just cold condescension.

“Contrary to what you might think, we’re not the monsters here,” the man says. Half-turning, he gestures to the door, and two guards come in. One carries some food—a sandwich and a cup of water—the other a gun, which he trains on Sam. Food-guy sets down the meal and unlocks one of Sam’s hands, then shoves the sandwich into it. Gun-guy looks at Sam like he’s just waiting for a reason to pull the trigger, and that’s probably pretty close to the truth.

“Wow, five-star service,” Sam deadpans.

Looking down at the bread and what looks like turkey and tomato and lettuce, Sam’s stomach painfully reminds him how long it’s been since he’s eaten. He hesitates for half a second, considers hunger striking, but then decides being physically weak probably isn’t a smart idea. Bitterly, he eats the sandwich, glaring at the man, who watches him impassively.

Bite. Chew. Swallow. Repeat.

It’s probably a decent sandwich, but it tastes like cardboard on his tongue and sticks to the roof of his mouth and in his throat.

Even the water does little to help.

As soon as he’s done, Food-guy locks his arm back up, and he and Gun-guy retreat with a nod from the old man.

“So, do I get a name or are you just gonna do the imposing anonymity thing?”

“Harris Blackbourne,” the man replies with the carelessness of someone who holds all the cards. “President of the Elders Council here in London. Tomorrow, the rest of the Council will be here for your trial.”

“Trial, huh? Guess you guys aren’t big on that whole ‘innocent until proven guilty’ concept.”

Blackbourne paces a step, one hand in his pants pocket. “I don’t believe you understand the gravity of the situation you’re in.”

“I don’t believe you understand the _gravity_ of the situations I’ve been in for my whole life.”

A grey eyebrow cocks up. “We are quite aware of what you and your brother have been up to.”

“Right. The jumped-up hunters playing with things we don’t understand. Just mucking up your playground because we’re too stupid to realize what’s going on.”

“Your comparison to children is apt.”

“Look, _Blackbourne_ ,” Sam answers with as much disdain for the name as he can manage, “compare us to stupid kids all you want. But when _God_ invites you to the grown-ups' table for a chat about how to save the world, you come let me know. Then we’ll talk.”

Sam conveniently neglects to mention how much of a douche God is and banks on the fact that the Men of Letters seem woefully ignorant about even some basic stuff to make this statement seem more impressive than it is.

Then again, even the reality is impressive, when you get right down to it, even with God masquerading as a twitchy fantasy novel writer.  

Blackbourne considers him, probably trying to discern if Sam is telling the truth, and Sam returns the stare dispassionately.

“You lie,” he says at last. “Your dealings with angels and demons have given you a deluded sense of your own importance.”

“Being part of a divine prophecy from the beginning of time about the Apocalypse will do that,” Sam answers sardonically. But then, he tries for honesty. “I’m not saying we never screwed up—trust me, we got a lot of tick marks in that column—but we’ve tried to do what’s right, even while being pushed and manipulated by Heaven and Hell and everything in between. But at least we didn’t sit back and do nothing to help while innocent people died.”

Blackbourne takes a step closer, but Sam notices he stays outside the Devil’s Trap painted on the floor, as if Sam is actually a demon they’ve captured. He wonders if the Men of Letters still think he’s under the influence of demon blood or something, and the thought makes his stomach roil.

“Innocent people have died because hunters like you meddled with things beyond your comprehension,” the man sneers.

“And who’s fault is that?” Sam challenges, quietly, his eyes hard. “Knowledge is only power if you _use_ it. You think what you want about hunters, that we’re brash, that we shoot first and ask questions later. But have you ever _actually_ worked with hunters? Seen us research and scour the world and our limited contacts for resources and lore that’s sparse at _best_? Because we are _desperate_ for knowledge, and you've got it all. Right here. And the dumb hunters? The ones you think are no more than cavemen? Yeah, well, guess what, they don’t last long. The _good_ hunters could probably run circles around a lot of your guys out there.”

“You really think so?” Blackbourne scoffs.

“Yeah, I do. We’ve got the practical knowledge—you guys wouldn’t know how to conduct a hunt and actually do anything about the monsters out there if it was the end of world...literally—and we've got the intelligence. Just because I’m one of the few who went to college doesn’t mean the rest of us couldn’t have if situations had been different. All we’re lacking is the information.”  

Blackbourne’s eyes become, if possible, even colder, and he looks like he’s about to argue, when Sam continues with his defense.

“And I wasn’t lying. The Darkness? Maybe you’ve heard of it? God’s sister, Amara? Well, God decided to come out of retirement to deal with it. Turns out he’d been hanging out on Earth playing human.”

Unfortunately, Blackbourne latches onto perhaps the least relevant part of Sam’s assertion, and they’re right back to the beginning. “Yes, the Darkness. The evil you and your brother released on the world, nearly causing its destruction. Again.”

Sam sighs. He’s not going to get anywhere with this guy, and he thinks this doesn’t bode well for the bullshit “trial" he’s going to go through tomorrow. It’ll be a farce, and it’ll end with Sam’s head on a pike, and that’ll be the inglorious end of the Winchesters. Maybe it’s a good thing Chuck’s not around to write the stunning conclusion to the Winchester Gospels. Then again, maybe the Becky Rosens of the world will step in and write a (hopefully not incestuous) ending.

“Well,” Sam says flippantly, “it’s been fun, but I’d like to get back to counting the bricks in the wall. I got up to about a hundred sixty and I really don’t want to have to start all over.”

If looks could kill...well, Sam probably would’ve been dead years ago by Castiel’s smiting bitchface (and Dean would’ve been a crater long before that)...but Blackbourne’s expression does its very best to incinerate Sam where he sits. Without another word, the man stalks from the cell, turning only at the door to deliver his final warning, like all the best villains and assholes do.

“Enjoy your night, Samuel, before the trial begins.”

“Yeah, and don’t let the bedbugs bite, Blackbourne.” He doesn’t quite sarcastically sing-song the words, but it’s a close call.

When the door closes solidly, Sam’s shoulders slump with the exhaustion of the day. Week. Years.

The lights dim after a while as if trying to imitate the outside world and the setting sun (which hasn’t died because his brother is a fucking hero and Sam doesn’t give a shit what the Men of Letters say). He can feel the fatigue play at his eyes as he stares at the symbols on the wall, which start to jump in the dimness.

The chair is hard and his back is sore.

The gunshot wound in his shoulder stings and burns.

His knees still ache and are probably bruised from getting shoved out of the car back in Kansas a million years ago.

He’s pretty sure his right leg went dead about about twenty minutes ago.

He jiggles his leg as best he can with the ankle cuffs. The pins and needles are a nice distraction.

Dean’s gone.

Cas isn’t here. Probably didn’t hear any of Sam’s prayers.

Would Cas even want to listen for prayers now? He’d always listened for Dean’s. He knows Cas cares about him and he knows Cas just wanted to help after Dean...died, but he and Cas have never had the same connection as the angel and his brother. He’s not jealous. Never has been, not really, except maybe in a pain-in-the-ass little brother way that didn’t like it when his brother made time for other people (he’s man enough, and feeling maudlin enough, to admit it now). But it’s not like anyone else ever did that for Sam, so he’d clung to Dean’s attention. Dean’d always been there. Always. Even when Sam didn’t want him to be because he was an ungrateful kid who never really got just how much his brother gave up for him—or at least, he _knew_ , but he didn’t _understand_. And maybe he never will.

 _Shit._

There are so many things he wishes he could’ve said to Dean. So many sorrys. So many thank yous.

And he knows that his brother told Cas to watch out for him because that’s what Dean does. Because it doesn’t matter that Sam’s thirty-three and can take care of himself (despite all current evidence to the contrary): Dean would always be his big brother watching out for him, or making sure someone else does when he’s gone.

And Dean’d trusted Cas with that because no matter what shit happens between those two, they _always_ come back to each other.

Maybe Sam is a little envious.

Not particularly of either of them, but just of the fact that Sam doesn’t have that with anyone. Not anymore.

He’s entertained the thought recently. Even brought it up to Dean. Finding someone who understands the freak show that is his life.

He thinks of Eileen and the slight spark of hope and light he’s been jealously, and probably naïvely, guarding in his heart, and the few texts they’d sent before the end was nigh and their lives got significantly weirder and more dire.

He blinks, something occurring to him. It’s something that, if he thinks about it, has always kind of been in the back of his mind, but he’d never _really_ thought of it before. His ruminations on Dean and Cas had led him to think of Eileen, and the parallel is suddenly not lost on him but thrown into sharp focus.

 _Huh._

If—when—he gets out of this, he’s going to track down Cas and make sure the guy’s all right. Cas is practically his best friend, his brother, and Sam understands that Dean’s likely parting words to Cas, to take care of Sam, were probably just as much for Cas’ benefit as for Sam’s. They’re pretty much each other’s only family left now, because Sam’s fairly confident that Cas isn’t going back to Heaven anytime soon.

Straightening and uncrinking his back as much as possible, Sam lifts his head with a newfound determination.

Dean might not have said it, but he would’ve wanted Sam to watch out for Cas. And there’s no way in hell Sam’s letting his brother down.

 

 

The night is long and unchanging.

At least, Sam thinks it’s night.

He’s not really sure how much time has passed.

At one point, the two guards came back and let him up to use a bathroom that would have been a little too public for Sam in normal circumstances, but he’d been too grateful to give a crap that he had an (armed) audience. His joints had been stiff and painful as he’d shuffled there and back, his muscles tight, but he’d relished the movement as the blood rushed back to his limbs.

The night drags on and on and Sam finds himself actually looking forward to the promised trial in the morning or whenever the Elders Council (which he can’t help but say in his mind with exaggerated and sarcastic importance) decides to put his ass on display and crucify him.

Just something to change the monotony.

And then, something mixes it up.

Cas’ entrance to the cell is not exactly dramatic. He looks a little flustered and a little worn down, but whether he’s all mojo-ed up or not, Sam knows anyone would be foolish to cross him.

Even so, Sam can’t resist quipping, "Pretty sure there’s a line about being short for a stormtrooper."

The angel gives that slightly crooked grin that on anyone else would be a full-blown smile and quickly crosses the room to where Sam sits. "Would that make you Leia?"

Sometimes it still surprises Sam that Cas actually understands these jokes now, even though Metatron zapped him a few years ago and Dean is—was—a walking pop culture reference. The handcuffs release, and Sam rubs his wrists while Cas works on the ankles.

"Other than making a crack about my hair, Dean probably would've said I’m Luke, just so he could be Han."

"You’re probably right," Cas replies with a mixture of amusement and sorrow. He stands up and backs away so Sam can rise as well.

Even though they probably don’t have much time, Sam still takes the moment to give Cas a hug, one-armed to avoid jostling his shoulder, but he makes up for it with his right arm as much as he can. Their mutual loss hangs heavy between them, but for the moment, Sam is just grateful that his friend, his other brother, is alive and well. "It’s good to see you, man. And thanks."

"I couldn’t let you—and Dean—down. Not again."

Stepping back and gripping Cas on the shoulder, Sam nods in earnest. "You didn’t. You did good, Cas. So, let’s get me out of here, all right?"

"Of course," Cas recovers quickly, and they jog for the door, carefully stepping over the unconscious guard.

It doesn’t matter that Sam’s been cooped up for hours; being back in action clears his mind instantly, the familiar adrenaline coursing through him. Cas hands him a unfamiliar gun, obviously still preferring his angel blade.

"Eileen and Toni—"

"Wait, Eileen? Eileen Leahy’s here?" Sam asks, stunned, as they make their way down the darkened hall. "How do you…?"

"When I was banished, she found me. She’s been most helpful, and a good friend." Suddenly, the angel stops, and Sam immediately adopts a defensive stance, assuming Cas has heard or detected a threat. But, instead, he simply turns to Sam, his head tilted and his eyes squinting. "Does that mean _I’m_ Leia?"

Sam snorts a laugh at the utter absurdity and complete Cas-ness of the question. "Toss up between her and Chewie. C’mon. You know your way out of here?"

“Yes,” Cas replies with characteristic sincerity and seriousness. “As I was saying, Eileen and Lady Toni Bevell are currently dealing with security.”

The library is empty when they arrive and pause. Clearly, the British Men of Letters have retired for the night; Sam idly wonders if there is a dormitory area like in theirs and if it’s used at all or if they all go home to spouses and families and real houses.

“Security?”

“Lady Bevell explained that there are guards watching the cameras,” Cas says, gesturing to one in the corner of the room. “They’re exploiting Eileen’s status as a long-lost Legacy to gain access.”

Sam smiles. “Is that how you found us?”

“Eileen had the coordinates in her grandfather’s journal. As I said, she’s been most helpful. And kind.” The last part would, on the surface and from anyone else, seem like an afterthought, but Sam has known the angel long enough to decipher his emotions to some degree, and knows how genuinely the sentiment is meant and, considering Cas’ recent experiences, how grateful he is for that kindness.

As if on cue, Eileen and Toni emerge from a side corridor, and Sam wonders how and why his captor seems to be helping them escape. Eileen jogs up to Sam, cautiously grinning.

“Sam!”

And because it’s been a long fucking day, Sam ignores the fact that, really, they barely know each other, and he steps forward to give her a hug.

“Thank you,” he says when they step back, and Eileen’s eyes smile, the simple sign carrying far more meaning between them.

“Are you ok?” she asks worriedly.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he lies. In the long run, no, he’s not fine. Probably won’t be fine for a long time. But for now, they need to get out of here, and he’s fine enough for that. Finally, he notices Toni standing quietly to the side. “Toni…?”

“Not now, Sam,” she dismisses, and he wonders if he’ll ever figure out what makes this woman tick. “We only have a few minutes to get you out of here, and…"

Whatever other part of the plan Toni was going to explain is interrupted by Blackbourne, flanked again by two guards, entering the room. Two more guards appear on the balcony, aiming rifles at them. For bookworms, the Men of Letters employ decent security.

“I thought an escape might occur,” the man addresses the room, calmly. “I must say, Antonia, I did _not_ expect your participation.”

“How did you know?" Toni asks.

“Anna’s phone. Not the most secure line, it turns out. I heard you ask her to return,” Blackbourne dismisses with a wave of a hand. Toni bristles and turns even paler all at once. Sam has no idea who Anna is, but that’s irrelevant to him at the moment. He starts mentally calculating their odds: four against five (even if Blackbourne seems more the type to let his minions handle the dirty work), and with two of the other side up on the balcony, that gives the guards an advantage.

Cas, it seems, has been doing similar mental math, and he looks to Sam, flicking his eyes in the direction of the guards on the balcony. He does the same to Eileen, and the two hunters give the slightest hint of acknowledgement. Sam isn’t entirely sure what it is that Cas has planned, but he understands what it is the angel wants of him.

Without warning, the lights flash and spark out. A bright glow emanates from Castiel, and against the bricks and stone walls, Sam catches the awesome sight of the shadows of angel wings. Somewhat broken, sure, but still impressive. The guards, not expecting this development, shield their eyes and step back, and Sam and Eileen take the distraction to shoot the guards on the balcony; Sam aims for a non-lethal wound, and he thinks Eileen does as well. Meanwhile, Castiel approaches the guards and Blackbourne, still shining with Grace, even if not quite as brilliantly as before.

The angel raises a hand to each guard, who cowers, and then they drop to the floor unconscious (Sam assumes Castiel did not kill them; plus, their eyes are still intact). Blackbourne, in the middle, looks like he’s facing Death himself but determined to make everyone think he isn’t terrified.

Castiel raises a hand to Blackbourne’s forehead, and the man shudders.

“No!” Toni shouts out.

Lowering this hand, Castiel turns to face her. His eyes are glowing blue, and he is wrath and power incarnate.

“Why?” the angel asks gravely.

She gives him a look, and at once, the light from Castiel dissipates. Sam isn’t sure anyone else catches it, but he’s fairly positive the angel sways slightly. Toni steps forward, and despite her shock and fear, she slips on that familiar mask of confidence with the ease of someone who does so far too often.

“You,” she addresses Blackbourne, “have made me beholden to you for far too long. Things will change around here. Remember now that I am the reason you are still alive.”

Blackbourne’s eyes narrow. “We shall see about that.” But he makes no further argument, given the unconscious state of his guards, the menace of the woman in front of him, the guns of the two hunters, and the apparent smiting powers of the angel.

“Do you need us still?” Castiel asks Toni, and she shakes her head.

“I think I can handle him. Go, the pilot for the jet owes me a favor. He will take you back to America.”

Sam’s at a loss for words at this change of events, but Castiel simply nods grimly, and they head towards the Bunker’s door to the outside. He looks to Eileen in question, but all the other hunter says is, “We’ll explain later,” as they follow Cas.

As soon as they’re out into the night air, Sam surges forward to catch Cas as he stumbles and nearly falls.

“I apologize. My Grace is…" the angel pants out.

The pieces click together, and Sam remembers the other times Cas has been depowered and the report that the other angels had sealed up Heaven. “Are you falling?”

“No, but I cannot simply draw power from Heaven anymore. My Grace will need to rest and replenish, and even then…"

Sam slings Cas’ arm over his shoulder while Eileen watches. She gives him a look, and quickly adopts the point position as they continue in the direction of the airfield where Sam arrived. There don’t seem to be any more guards or obstacles in their path, but they can’t be too careful.

They’re about twenty yards from the airstrip, the white jet gleaming under a spotlight, when Cas starts to straighten up and support more of his own weight again. Sam is about to let him go when suddenly the angel pitches forward, nearly taking Sam down with him.

Crying out in pain, Cas clutches his forehead with one hand, his other hand propping himself up in the cool grass.

“Cas!” Eileen and Sam both cry out at the same time.

He doesn’t respond, even when Sam grips his shoulder and tries to help him stand back up. Finally, the pain seems to subside, and Cas looks to Sam. His eyes are wide in surprise, the irises dark, but the whites bright against the night.

“Dean,” Cas says in shock. “I heard him. Dean’s...Dean’s alive.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I make no apologies for the multiple Star Wars references in this fic. (And I know I'm not the first to make those character comparisons, and I've done it in other fics, but c'mon, it's just too perfect.)
> 
> (As for the dig about Wincest: you can ship whatever you want--makes no matter of mind to me--but the Sam in this fic isn't a Wincest shipper. Sorry!)
> 
> So...Dean/Cas reunion...we're so close!! (And we're almost at the end of angry Sam. It breaks my heart to write him so upset.) 30k+ words is a long time to wait, I know, but please don't give up on me. And no, this isn't going to be a "yay they're reunited!" *roll credits* situation. This fic has a LOT left to cover -- for all the characters. 
> 
> Anyway, I really wanted Cas to be the one who saves Sam because the guy really needs a win.


	16. All Together Now

“Dean!”

His mother’s voice snaps Dean out of his near-panic mode, and he quickly begins to compartmentalize the situation. There’s blood on the floor. There’s a banishing sigil. Sam and Cas are not here. The door is intact. He starts to voice this train of thought out loud.

“It doesn’t look like there’s that much blood, and they didn’t break in, so that narrows down the suspect pool.” Dean’s voice is flat and all-business. Mary nods with a similar expression.

“Who can get in here?”

“These days? Too many, but not many who’d use a gun,” Dean adds, picking up the shell on the floor. It’s a .45, but that doesn’t really tell him anything. “Crowley said he figured they came back here, and he didn’t sound like he knew there was anything wrong.”

“He’s a demon,” Mary counters.

“Yeah, but I know Crowley. If he had something to do with it, he’d have an agenda and he’d’ve said something.”

“He also mentioned his...mother?”

Dean shakes his head. “Rowena. She’s a witch and she’s after big game. My bet’s the two of them are gonna be keeping each other occupied over Hell for awhile. Plus, she’d use magic.”

Billie had sauntered in here when they came up with the soul bomb, but Dean also dismisses her: she wouldn’t need a gun or to banish Cas, and Dean’s pretty sure she’s not actively out to kill any of them; she just doesn’t care if and when they die, although she’d probably prefer it sooner than later so they stop messing up the natural order. No, this attack was human. The Stynes had broken in last year and trashed the place, and they’d said the family was big (even though Dean took out a sizeable chunk; other than the kid, he doesn’t really regret it, and he’s pretty sure that's more troubling than blaming it all on the Mark, but that's a freak out for another day), but this doesn’t seem like their style.

“Who else is on the list?” Mary asks. She’s crouched by the banishing sigil, studying it. “Obviously someone who knows magic. Another hunter?”

“Maybe. I dunno. Don’t think anyone else knows about this place, but then again, me ‘n Sam don’t have a lot of friends left. Sure someone’s pissed at us about something..." He tries to inject the assertion with humor, but it goes over about as well as a lead balloon. Scrubbing a hand over his face, he tries to force himself to _think_. “Shit, Mom...I don’t...”

The phone that has been painfully silent vibrates in Dean’s pocket, and he scrambles to dig it out. But he frowns at the contact name on the screen: Eileen Leahy. But why would Eileen be _calling_? (And if anyone was going to contact him, in any fashion, from that particular case, Dean would’ve put money on Mildred...)

He frowns as he answers, and the frown deepens to a scowl when he realizes that his response is going to be pretty much on par with how Crowley reacted when Dean tried to call him earlier.

“Who is this and why are you calling from this number?” he growls.

“Dean?! It’s me, Sam!”

As if Dean wouldn’t recognize that voice anywhere. Relief washes over him, as well as frustration over the fact that he’s been fucking worried about his dumbass little brother who wouldn’t answer the goddamn phone and...

“Yeah, it’s me. I’m alive. And what’re you doing with Eileen? You better not tell me you’ve been shacking up with her all day and ignoring your fucking phone while I’m freaking the fuck out that there’s blood on the floor and a goddamn banishing sigil and—"

“I can’t believe you’re alive! I thought—" Sam cuts off, but Dean understands. There’s a pause, and then Sam seems unable to hold back because he’s going about a mile a minute and Dean can barely keep up. “And I’m fine, by the way, and no, I wasn’t ‘shacking up’ with Eileen, asshole. British Men of Letters caught me, banished Cas, took me to England, and then Cas and Eileen showed up and busted me out. And then Cas heard your prayer so we knew you were alive and—”

“You’re in London?” Dean sputters, trying to make sense of the torrent of information— _British Men of Letters? What the fuck?_ —and then finally the more important part of Sam’s babbling explanation hits him. “Wait, Cas is with you? He’s ok?”

“Yeah, he’s good. Kinda worn out, but, here, hold on..."

There’s some shuffling on Sammy’s end, and Dean can hear murmured voices, and then finally...

“Hello, Dean.” There’s such warmth and relief in the angel’s voice, and Dean wonders what the hell he’s ever done to deserve it.

“Cas! You sonofabitch,” Dean smiles into the phone. “You had me worried.”

There’s a huff on the other end of the line. “I—We could say the same. Are you all right? Your prayer, it was... And God and Amara...?”

“Yeah, man, I’m fine. God and Amara fixed me up, then peaced out to have a heart to heart or something. No soul bomb.”

“I’m glad,” Cas answers, which Dean knows is Cas-speak for being over the fucking moon.

“Yeah, me, too,” he chuckles. “We’ll, uh, we’ll talk more when you guys get home, ok?”

“I would like that.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, trailing the word. He clears his throat. “Hey, you mind putting Sammy back on for a sec?”

“Of course. I’ll talk to you soon.”

Dean bites back a laugh, finding the angel's somewhat stilted cadence comforting in its familiarity and utter Cas-as-a-human-ness. “Sounds good, man.”

Another shuffle, and then Sam’s voice returns, and his dork of a brother picks up mid-babble like he never stopped. “So you gotta tell me what happened with Chuck and Amara, and you’re ok, right?”

“Dude, calm down. I’m good. More than good,” he replies, looking to his mom, who smiles softly. “Look, I can explain it all when you get back and you better tell me what the hell you mean by this whole British invasion shit. And uh, I’ve got a surprise for you.”

“A surprise? What?”

“Would it be a freaking surprise if I told you?” Dean rolls his eyes. “But hey, we better cut this short before Eileen gets pissed about the phone bill and you gotta unleash the puppy-dog eyes on her.”

“I don’t—"

“Uh huh. Chicks dig that, I hear.”

“You’re an ass.”

“One of my many charms,” Dean answers cheerfully, relishing the banter especially after the shitstorm that has been their lives lately. A thought occurs to him, though, and suddenly his stomach plummets. “You guys can fly back, right? Like I don’t have to come get you guys or something…?”

Sam laughs. “Yeah, we’re commandeering the Men of Letters’ jet. You don’t have to fly anywhere.”

“They have a _jet?_ ”

“Yeah, one that’s actually about to take off, so I gotta go.”

“Yeah, yeah, ok. Later, bitch.”

“Jerk.”

Hanging up the phone, Dean’s grin spreads as he looks at his mother. “They’re coming home.”

 

 

Of course, it turns out that flying from England to Kansas isn’t exactly a puddle jump, and so they have to wait.

And waiting has never been something that Dean does easily.

He shows Mary around the Bunker, and he’s weirdly delighted that his mom thinks the place is cool. He explains all about how Henry showed up in 2013, and he’s relieved that Mary seems to read between the lines about Henry and John. They move Baby into the garage, he shows her the main common areas, and he shows her his room. For reasons he can’t quite explain, he’s relieved that the place isn’t a wreck (not that it ever is, or at least, it never is for long).

He knows it isn’t much to look at. It still has a spartan dormitory quality to it, even with his stuff carefully displayed, but it’s his space and he likes it.

A whole range of emotions flashes over Mary’s face as she sees his bedside table. Her fingers lightly trace the picture of herself holding young Dean and baby Sam. The picture is old and creased, and he should probably get a frame for it so it doesn’t keep getting beat up, but he’d kept it in his wallet for so long that it seems strange to lock it behind glass.

“I remember that day,” she says softly, and Dean rubs the back of his head awkwardly. “Do you?”

“Not really,” he confesses. He wishes he did. There are a lot of memories from _before_ that he’s kept in his heart, that he’s shared with Sammy as best he can, that he’s tried to keep from getting warped by the hands of Time and the wishful memory of a four-year-old who just wanted his family back and for his little brother to have something to hold on to. But there are many he knows he's forgotten.

Mary smiles, but her eyes are shining. “John got home early from the garage that day. It was just a normal day. Late summer. You kept trying to get Sammy to crawl to you in the grass while I was weeding the garden. Your dad came home, went right inside, dug out the camera, and had us get together for this picture. He said coming home to that was the best thing in the world.”

Dean remembers sneaking the picture out of his dad’s wallet when he could, until finally he was old enough for his own wallet and John had given him the picture.

Gently, she replaces the picture, propping it up against the base of the lamp, just as Dean had.

Somehow, the fact that his mother is alive again seems less real now, and not part of some fever dream, than it did hours ago.

 

 

“The Internet?” Mary eyes the laptop dubiously.

“Yeah. I thought you might wanna, I dunno, catch up. Lot’s happened in thirty years.”

He gives her a quick tutorial on Google, sets her up with Wikipedia (not the best source, but probably the easiest to navigate) and a few news sites, and lets her at it.

He also unearths a plug-in mouse from somewhere in Sam’s room because Mary had looked at the laptop’s trackpad like it had personally offended her. He is impressed, though, when her fingers glide over the keyboard effortlessly.

Mary shrugs. “I was taking some night classes, before you were born. Library science—figured I’d be good at it after a lifetime of research for cases. Besides,” she quirks a smile, “I’m not so old that I never used a computer or a typewriter.”

“That’s not—" Dean stammers. Mary grins, pats him on the cheek, and then returns to the laptop with the same kind of determination—and some wariness—that he remembers Cas had had when they’d introduced the angel to technology.

This of course, makes him think of Sam and Cas’s not-so imminent arrival, and he checks his watch. Still hours to go.

Waiting sucks.

 

 

He drinks a beer in the kitchen—one of the ones he’d claimed they didn’t have enough of before dragging Cas out for a beer run—but that only takes a few minutes. With nothing else to do, he scrubs the place clean and empties the fridge of expired food (not that there had been much food in there to begin with: Casa de Winchester hasn’t exactly been home base in anything except name lately).

He frowns at the practically bare shelves; other than a bottle of ketchup, a few bottles of beer, and one of Sam’s nasty green smoothies that Dean’s tempted to throw out just on principle, Dean realizes that they have nothing for when Sam and Cas (and Eileen?) get back. Plus, he feels like a crappy host serving his mom take-out on her first night in the Bunker.

He returns to the library where Mary is clicking and reading, her eyes peering intently at the screen. She doesn’t even hear him when he arrives, and she jumps when he clears his throat.

“Sorry,” he grimaces. “I, uh, I’m gonna run to the store, get some food and stuff. Do you wanna come, or...?”

Mary looks at him a little guiltily. “Do you mind if I stay?”

“Nah, I get it,” he chuckles. “Internet’s like crack.”

She hums in agreement, then gives him a questioning look, and spins the laptop to face him. “Donald Trump...are you sure he’s human?”

“Sammy and I tossed the idea around about him being a leftover Leviathan, but sources say he’s human. I dunno. Maybe he got a sweet Crossroads deal.”

“There’s no way that hair is natural.”

“Oh, that’s definitely the work of evil,” Dean agrees.

 

 

“What’re you making?” Mary asks.

Dean turns to find his mother in the kitchen doorway. He holds up his hands from the bowl; they’re covered in ground beef. “Hamburger patties. Can cook ‘em up later.”

Without another word, Mary joins him, her fingers squishing into the meat to grab a handful.

The work doesn’t take as long as Dean would like.

He draws it out by making a salad.

He doesn’t even care if Sam crows about this later.

 

 

His fingers drum on the steering wheel impatiently. Mary rolls her eyes, but he knows she’s just as anxious as he is. Probably more so.

Finally, a white plane lands, and Dean gets out of the Impala, parked in a small lot near the private airfield, and he jogs over to the tarmac. A set of stairs unfolds, and Sam, Eileen, and Cas emerge.

“Sammy,” he greets, his smile almost reaching his ears. It doesn’t matter that they talked on the phone and he knew his brother is fine; it didn’t count until he could see in person that Sam is alive and well. Sam’s smile is just as wide, although Dean also can see exhausted relief and the remnants of grief. The hug is just as tight as the one in the graveyard two days ago (has it really been only two days?). “It’s ok, Sammy,” he whispers gruffly.

Sam’s eyes are wet when they part, and his giant of a brother sniffs. “Jesus, Dean.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Dean knows the moment Sam sees her over his shoulder because his jaw goes slack, and his wide eyes flick between her and Dean, asking for confirmation from his big brother that he’s not hallucinating.

“Sammy?” Mary says tentatively.

“Mom?” he chokes out. Dean puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Yeah, man, it’s her. It’s really her.”

Somehow, the 6’4" man ends up looking small in Mary’s arms, and Dean’d be a liar if he said his eyes were dry watching. Turning, though, he finds Cas and Eileen, Eileen watching questioningly at the scene until Cas signs something to her and she nods, eyes wide with understanding.

Dean’s not sure why he’s surprised that Cas knows sign language—dude knows the whole history of the planet—but something about seeing him do it makes the corner of his mouth quirk up. But nowhere near as much as when Cas realizes Dean has turned in their direction, and the angel practically launches himself at Dean, not unlike how he did the last time they saw each other.

“Dean.”

“Hey, Cas. I’m here.”

For some reason, Dean feels his muscles relax, tension he didn’t even know he was holding in rolling off of him. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t have to be the strong one for Cas like he does for Sammy. He doesn’t know, and right now, he doesn’t care.

When they step back, Dean gives the angel a crooked grin. “Thanks, Cas, seriously. Heard you went all badass to get Sammy back.”

There’s something Dean can’t quite define in Cas’ expression, and the angel nods minutely. “I don’t know about that,” he admits. He half turns, making space for Eileen. “I had help.”

Dean knows a deflection when he sees one, and he knows he’s gonna have to do something about that later, but it can wait. He hopes. Instead, he turns to Eileen, carefully enunciating, “Thank you, Eileen. Good to know someone could pull Sam’s ass out of the fire.”

She replies teasingly, “Wouldn’t be the first time I’d done it for a Winchester.”

“Ha, guess you’re right,” Dean acknowledges with a grin, remembering how he’d been practically down for the count until Eileen had killed the banshee.

At this point, Mary and Sam have rejoined the party.

“So, uh, Mom,” Dean cuts in before Sam can, not sure why he wants to be the one to do the introductions, “this is Castiel. Cas, this is my mom.”

Cas holds out a hand cautiously, and Dean is uncomfortably reminded of the first time Sam and Cas met, except now the roles are reversed. Mary regards Cas carefully, but she gives a small smile, then goes right past the hand and hugs the angel, though a little stiffly and certainly not as tightly as she had with either of her sons. Dean lets out a breath.

“I’ve heard so much about you,” Mary tells him.

“And I, you. It's an honor,” Cas replies with a note of reverence. He looks to Dean. “How…?”

“Amara. As a thank you.”

Something flickers in Cas’ eyes, and Dean gives him a look that says “later"; after Jody, Dean has a feeling he knows what question is on the tip of Cas’ tongue, but he doesn’t want to have that conversation right now. Mary, thankfully, doesn’t notice anything, and neither does his brother, as Sam takes over the introductions, dragging Eileen into the conversation.

Dean almost feels a little bad for her; meeting parents is always awkward, and that’s before you even get to the Winchester’s special brand of weird.

But, Mary and Eileen seem to hit it off, with Mary thanking Eileen for her help, Sam grinning like a huge dork, and Eileen looking almost bashful from the praise.

Eventually, they’re all piled into the Impala: Dean drives, Sam rides shotgun despite his offer that Mary take the seat (which Mary had emphatically declined, citing physics and logic about fitting three people in the backseat even if one isn’t an abnormally overgrown human—ok, she hadn’t said that _exactly_ , but Dean knows she was thinking it), and Mary, Cas, and Eileen squeeze into the back. The drive to Kansas City to get Eileen’s truck is about an hour, and if airport parking didn’t cost an arm and a leg, they would’ve insisted she just come back to the Bunker for the night.

Dean suspects that would’ve made his brother happy.

The ride there mostly consists of recapping the last two days. Cas translates for Eileen, since she can’t see everyone’s faces to read lips, and Dean catches Sam watching them sign with interest. Dean gives an abbreviated version of the conversation he had in the garden with Amara and Chuck, and he and Mary both recount their travels and pit-stops. When Claire comes up (though not the details of their conversation), Dean makes brief eye-contact with Cas in the rearview mirror, and the wounded and guilty look in those blue eyes makes Dean add one more thing to deal with to the ever-growing list.

Sam, Cas, and Eileen’s eventually overlapping stories give them quite a few miles of discussion.

“They wanted to put you _on trial?_ ” Dean asks.

“Yeah. They pulled the same ‘hunters are apes’ crap that Henry tried, just to the nth degree,” Sam explains.

“Think they’re gonna try again?”

“Maybe. I dunno.”

Cas chimes in at this point, “I believe Lady Toni Bevell will have enough on her hands in the future.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dean asks at the same time that Sam wonders, “Yeah, what was all that about?”

Cas and Eileen relate what they know about this Lady Whatever and her kid and how they think she’s going to try and stage a coup.

“Good for her,” Dean shrugs, mostly because if there's shit going down in the British Men of Letters, that'll keep her away and Dean won't be tempted to absolutely kick her ass for kidnapping his brother. “Well, they try again, we’ll be ready for ‘em. Can’t believe she got the drop on both of you.”

“Shut up.” Sam rolls his eyes at Dean. Cas gives him a look through the mirror that Dean’s pretty sure translates to _We had other things on our minds, Dean_ , and he reins in his joking and sighs. Something else for the list.

 

 

By the time they make it back to the Bunker, they’re exhausted, but Dean gets a second wind at the realization that his family is _home_ and _safe_ , and so cooking up the burgers sounds like a fantastic plan.

Mary and Sam seem to agree, and Dean smiles with pleasure as the four of them sit around the table, talking and eating. Cas, however, does not take a burger, which disappoints Dean for some undefinable reason, even though rationally, he knows the angel doesn’t need to eat, and the food will taste “like molecules" if he tries.

Dean waves away Mary and Sam’s offer to clean since Dean cooked, and tells Sam to get Mary set up with a room. (Sure, he could’ve done that for her while they were waiting for the plane to arrive, but he’d wanted Sammy to have _something_ to show and do with their mom.) The two of them leave, and Dean puts the stack of plates in the sink. When he turns back, he realizes that Cas, who had been clearing away the empty beer bottles, is nowhere to be found.

“Sonofabitch.”

He jogs to the library, then back to the dormitory hallway when he doesn’t find Cas there—he can hear Mary and Sam’s voices around the corner, and Dean wonders if Mary might be taking the room next to Kevin’s old one. Cas’ room, which is along the same stretch of rooms as Dean’s, is empty and bare. Dean’d cleared it out for Cas years ago, back when Cas had become human, but he’d never gotten the chance to use it before Gadreel had...no, that was Dean’s fault. Sure, Gadreel had insisted, had dangled his brother’s health over him, but Dean could’ve done more for Cas. That’s on him, and always will be.

And with those unpleasant memories, Dean steps back out into the hallway, unsure where to look for Cas next.

He wouldn’t leave, would he? The doubt gnaws at him, and he tries to push it away, instead trying to think like Cas and figure out where Cas would go in the Bunker.

Or maybe not _in_ the Bunker...

He heads to the front door, taking the steps two at a time. Outside, the air is a warm mix of late spring and early summer.

“Cas?” he calls out. “You out here?”

No response, but Dean still has a hunch he’s right about this. The embankment next to the door is steep and rocky, and Dean lets out more than a few choice words as he scrambles up. The old factory looms up over him, and the Kansas horizon stretches out for miles. On a relatively flat part, just below the crest of the hill, Dean finds Cas, sitting on the ground, knees pulled up and arms loosely draped around his legs. He’s startled at how _human_ the angel looks. But, even so, he can tell Cas is far from relaxed: his shoulders are tight and his back is too straight and his eyes are fixed on some distant spot in a far off field.

“Cas, man, didn’t you hear me?” he half-pants out as he drops beside him, mimicking Cas. Maybe Sam’s onto something with that whole working out thing, but fuck if Dean’ll ever actually admit it out loud.

“I heard you,” Cas answers softly. “I heard you...before.”

And Dean knows this conversation isn’t going to be just shooting the shit with a buddy. But when is it ever with them?

“Yeah, I know. Good thing you did. I was going nuts with you guys not answering your phones.”

Cas gives the barest hint of a smile of acknowledgment, but Dean’ll take what he can get. “It was...intense. My Grace is weakened without Heaven. I never even heard any of Sam’s prayers after I was banished.”

Something inside Dean shifts at that revelation, so he tries to pass it off as best he can. “You always did like me better,” he kids.

“Yes,” Cas acknowledges like it’s the fucking gospel truth, and Dean squirms a little. “But I do like Sam,” he adds, as though concerned Dean would doubt him on this point, and _shit_ , he probably _does_ think that. “I wanted to save him, not just because…"

"...because I said to watch out for him?”

Cas nods. “I promised you I would.”

“Thanks, again,” Dean says, trying to inject his words with as much feeling as he can. “Knew you wouldn’t let me down.”

Unfortunately, that doesn’t have the effect on Cas he hoped it would, and the angel stiffens slightly. He turns to Dean, tilting his head and squinting his eyes. “Why aren’t you inside? Your mother is back.”

“Yeah, she is,” Dean grins, glancing back in the direction of the Bunker door, even though he can’t see it from this angle. “But I got two days with her. Figured it was Sammy’s turn.”

“And you’re sure that she is...?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. Already had it out with Jody about the whole thing. Pretty sure Amara and everything’s on the up and up. She just wanted her family back, and when she got it, she decided to return the favor, I guess.”

“Yes. Your family is back,” Cas muses, then sighs. He stands up, and looks again out to the horizon. The setting sunlight makes his skin look tan and healthy, belying the exhaustion etched in his features.  “I hope you don’t mind, if I stay for awhile. Just until my Grace is restored. I know I’m not much use right now—"

“Whoa, whoa, Cas, hold on,” Dean cuts in, hauling himself up off the ground. “We ain’t kicking you out.”

“I would think that you would want time, with your family.”

“You _are_ family. I told you that, remember? What part of that don’t you get?”

Cas’ head hangs despondently. Looking back up, his blue eyes ask a silent _Why?_ Dean puts a hand on Cas’ shoulder, ducking his head a little to force himself into Cas’ line of sight.

“Shit, Cas. I just got you _back_. I ain’t letting you walk off again.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, me, too, about a lotta things. We got shit to work out, not gonna lie to you, but,” Dean sighs, taking his hand back and rubbing it over his jaw as he looks away, out to that same horizon that Cas seems to love, "...but I can’t go through these last few months again. And not just ‘cause of Lucifer—I get it, I do, and I already told ya, you made the best choice you could, you stood up when me n’ Sammy didn’t—but _you_ were gone and I didn’t know if I’d get you back. It wasn’t just about shoving Lucifer back in the Cage. And we probably could’ve, but…"

“But what?”

“Christ,” Dean mutters. “We didn’t have a plan where you got out, too. And I couldn’t let that happen. We need you, Cas. I need you, not just ‘cause of your angel mojo or whatever. I—we—want you here.”

Cas studies him, and Dean remembers how earnestly the angel had offered to go with him on his kamikaze run. On impulse, Dean opens his arms and draws Cas in.

“I...I would like to stay,” Cas muffles into Dean’s shoulder.

“Yeah. Long as you’d like. It’s your home, too.”

 

 

Back inside, Sam and Mary have evidently retired for the night, but Sam’s door is cracked open slightly. Stopping, Dean peers through the crack, and smiles to see Sam sprawled on his too-small mattress. The gauze from his shoulder is just visible under his shirt sleeve, and Dean would be worried, but his brother has seen worse. On his nightstand is the box that Dean knows is filled with Sam’s personal treasures, even if Sam has never mentioned it and Dean pretends he’s unaware of its existence.

Across the hall and a couple rooms down is Mary’s room. There’s a light under the door, and Dean knocks softly.

“Come in.”

He cracks it open, and sees Mary sitting with one leg crooked up on the mattress. She’s wearing what looks like one of his t-shirts and a pair of gym shorts that probably belong to Sam, if the fact that they hit her below the knees is any indication. He’s relieved Sam had the decency to give her one of his nicer shirts.

“Just wanted to check in. Need anything?”

“No, I’m good.” Mary gets up, and crosses the room. She rests a hand on his cheek. “You take care of everyone. Go take care of yourself. You need sleep.”

“Yes, _Mom_.” They both smile, and Dean wonders if goddesses accept fruit baskets as thank yous because he’s pretty sure that he might just owe Amara about a thousand and a half of them. “G'night.”

“Love you.”

“You, too.”

When Dean returns to his hallway, he finds Cas’ door is open, but the angel isn’t inside the room. Instead, he’s staring at it from the hallway, as if he’s looking into the Gates of Hell.

“Cas?”

Cas turns to him, guiltily. “I know I must rest, let my Grace heal, but…"

Dean regards the room. Ever since the Gadreel drama, it probably hasn't been a place that Cas has _wanted_ to be in: any time he’s _needed_ it since then, it hasn’t been for any good reason.

“It’s ok. C’mon,” he says, with a jerk of his head in the direction of his own room. Puzzled, Cas follows, hovering awkwardly in the doorway.

“But this is your room,” Cas questions.

“Yeah. Just, I dunno. Get comfy.”

“What about you?”

Dean shucks off his outer shirt, toes off his boots, and nods in the direction of the bed. “I am gonna sleep. You can take the chair, you can stretch out on the bed...whatever makes ya happy.”

He determinedly avoids examining his reasons behind the offer.

He finishes changing into a pair of sweatpants and climbs into bed under the covers, and after a minute’s hesitation, Castiel also toes off his shoes, deposits his coats on the back of the chair, and gingerly sits on the bed, stretching his legs out before him and leaning against the headboard.

“Not gonna sleep under the covers?” Deans asks in more of a mumble than anything, fatigue finally winning over.

“It’s not really sleep, Dean,” Cas tells him. “This will be sufficient. Thank you.”

Dean tries to mask his vague disappointment as he drifts off. “Anytime.”

Sleep comes easier than it has in a long while.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, more angst and pining and UST. You're welcome. (I'm not even a little sorry.) :-P
> 
> Also, I'm away this weekend, so new chapter on Monday! (Maaaaaaybe Sunday if I get home early enough/am not hungover because I spent Saturday trying to keep up with my grandmother. The struggle is real.)


	17. Rescue Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Weekend with family = success (both in fun and in non-hangoveriness). So, to celebrate, you get a new chapter!

Leaving the Impala and getting back in her truck had seemed strange and empty and lonely, feelings that surprise Eileen after a lifetime of working mostly alone. As she heads off down the road, she replays the moment in the airport parking lot over and over again.

Dean had given her a heartfelt hug, his gratitude over Sam’s safety telegraphed clearly in his every action. He’d also issued a standard, “if you’re ever in the area,” but Eileen thinks he isn’t the type to say those words idly.

She and Mary had parted a little more formally, neither of them quite sure what to do. It had been polite: Mary had been thankful, Eileen had been interested, and obviously surprised, to meet the mother she knows the Winchesters had lost. But Mary and the brothers had had far more on their minds than the random hunter who’d tagged along on a case, and Eileen doesn’t begrudge them that: she can only imagine how she would react if Lillian, who’d been the only family she’d known ever since the banshee killed her parents, suddenly reappeared. Or if her parents came back and she got to meet them for real.

With Cas, she had exchanged a few extra sentiments. After all, as JK Rowling would probably say, there are some things you can’t share without ending up liking each other, and breaking into a secret organization on a rescue mission is one of them.

“Will you be all right?” he’d asked with that concerned frown she’s come to associate with the angel.

She’d smiled. “Shouldn’t I be asking _you_ that?”

Cas had given her soft smile, but his eyes had drifted back towards the rest of the group. “I think...I think I will be fine.” He paused, then gave her a look of such deep soul-searching sincerity that she finds it hard to believe that anyone could ever mistake him for human. “Thank you. I could not have done this without you.”

“Of course.” She stepped forward to give him a hug, and although he was awkward and stiff, he did return the gesture. “Good luck.”

He nodded, and turned away, until Eileen thought of one more thing.

“Cas!”

The angel looked back to her, and she’d quickly signed, “You should tell him.”

His blue eyes went wide, but he’d seemed to take the suggestion to heart with an almost fearful nod, then stepped back, allowing Sam to say his good-byes. Sam jammed his hands in his pockets and looked at her almost sheepishly, and she’d smirked a little fondly at how this guy could go from imposing to awkward in about .6 seconds.

“So, when I get a new phone, can I still text you? Hopefully I won’t need a rescue.”

“Sure. If you do need a rescue, though, and I have to fly there, can it be some place tropical? Maybe Hawaii? London’s nice, but…"

Sam let out a laugh, and she’d joined, unable to hold back the deadpanning. “Yeah, I’ll see what I can do. But, uh, you ever want someplace to stop closer to home, Lebanon, Kansas is always open.”

“I think I’m good with Men of Letters stuff for now,” she admitted jokingly, but when Sam’s eyes had flashed in disappointment, she’d added, “But I’d come if there’s no hunting.”

“Yeah?” Sam ran a hand through his hair and grinned. “I can’t promise that, but I—we’d—love for you to swing by, hunting or no.”

“I will.”

The hug back in the Men of Letters library in England had been one of exhaustion and relief, but this one was far more familiar feeling. Sam’s arms spoke of friendship and _family_ , and Eileen had held on a little longer than probably necessary.

“Thank you,” he’d said before getting back in the car with his family.

Now, as she flicks on her turn signal and changes lanes, Eileen thinks that that might quickly become her favorite sign.

 

 

It’s well past normal visiting hours at the Oak Park retirement community when she arrives, but Eileen knows it’s not as though the staff can make her leave: residents are allowed to have guests whenever they want, but they do prefer visits during the day. She smiles at the man behind the desk in the lobby and signs in at the guestbook, then takes the familiar stairs to Mildred’s room. She only has to wait a minute or so for Mildred to open the door, and the retiree beams when she sees who has come to call.

“Eileen!” she declares, arms open to welcome her into the suite. The older woman then puts a hand on each shoulder, holding Eileen back so she can give her a critical once over. Letting go, she says, her bangles tumbling against her wrists, “Everything ok?”

Eileen nods. “I’m fine. I had to help Sam and Dean.”

Mildred gets a mischievous look in her eye, then pretends to look over Eileen’s shoulder towards the door. “You’re not hiding them are you?”

“Sorry,” Eileen shrugs and chuckles.

Mildred waves the thought away with a hand. “Never would have worked between me and Dean anyway.”

Unslinging her duffel from her shoulder and setting it on the floor next to the couch, Eileen can’t help but tease Mildred back. “Why? Do you have someone else?”

Mildred tosses her head back in laughter, then shakes her head. “Not _me_.” 

Eileen raises an eyebrow in question, wondering what Mildred knows. True, on the plane, Cas had all but confessed his and Dean’s...whatever it is, or isn’t...but she’d gotten the sense from Dean during the banshee case that he both hadn’t minded playing along with Mildred’s harmless flirting to a degree and wouldn’t be the type to have a heartfelt confession with a total stranger.

Unfortunately, Mildred ignores Eileen’s silent question and asks, “How’s Sam?”

Eileen rolls her eyes and fights a smile. Ever since they met, Mildred has been determined to play matchmaker, or at least be Eileen’s confidante in the affair. At this point, Eileen knows it’s better to just go with it. Plus, it’s not like she would exactly say no to that...

“Do you mind if I stay here tonight?” she asks instead. “I’ll be out early tomorrow.”

“Stay as long as you like,” Mildred replies. “Be prepared though: some of the ladies are coming over in the morning to play…" She pauses, then resumes and finger-spells, 'mah jongg.' “We get wild sometimes.”

“I’m sure.” And Eileen means it: she’s met a couple of the mah jongg ladies before; there’s a reason they’re all friends with Mildred. She sits on the couch, and a minute later, she has two arms full of blankets, sheets, and a pillow. “Thanks.”

Suddenly, all of the adrenaline that’s been coursing through her ever since she found Cas in the field drains out of her and she slumps back into the cushions. Mildred frowns.

“What’s wrong?” 

Eileen moves the stack of linens to the armchair next to her while Mildred takes the other seat on the sofa. “Just tired.” She thinks for a brief second that that will be the end of it, but Mildred studies her closely, then shakes her head.

“It’s more than that.”

Biting her lower lip, Eileen thinks for a minute. Mildred’s right: it’s more than just exhaustion. Behind Mildred, there’s a framed picture of the retiree and her family: son, daughter-in-law, two grandchildren (a boy and a girl, about three and seven, respectively). She thinks of the sadness in Cas’ eyes when he’d explained that Dean was gone, and the same grief she’d seen mirrored in Sam’s eyes. The joy and relief when Cas had received Dean’s prayer and Dean had answered their call, and again when they’d seen each other in person—how Dean and Sam’s interactions and Dean’s and Cas’ had been so different and yet equally fierce with love. The surprise and shock in Sam’s features when he’d seen his mother, and the way Dean and Cas had watched the reunion with satisfaction and pride.  

Eileen wants that. All of that.

For too many years, she knows she’s shut herself away. Lillian’s death had been difficult, and the hunter had been one of the few people who accepted Eileen as is. After that, Eileen had retreated from the hunting community. Sure, there were still those with whom she kept in contact—Siobhán, for instance—but they were more professional relationships than anything personal, even if she did get along with them.

But now, Eileen wants more.

Not to escape hunting. She doesn’t think she’ll ever leave it, at least, not entirely. But maybe there’s more to life than just hunting monsters and avenging long-gone parents. Or maybe life is just worth more, or is more bearable, when there’s someone to share it with.

A wrinkled hand rests on her knee, and Eileen snaps out of her rambling thoughts. She offers Mildred’s worried look a small smile. “Just thinking about...family.”

Mildred nods, seeming to understand exactly what Eileen really means. The older woman takes Eileen’s hands in hers and looks her straight in the eye. “Remember what I always say: follow your heart.”

“I will,” she promises.

Satisfied, Mildred gets up and starts bustling around her kitchenette, insisting that Eileen must want _something_ to eat or drink before going to bed. Eventually, Eileen manages to placate her by taking a pear and a can of raspberry-lime seltzer before bidding her good-night, thanking her again, and making up the couch.

Just as she’s about to fall asleep, she feels her phone vibrate and sees a notification for a message from an unknown number.

> [unknown number]: Hey Eileen. It’s Sam...I found a backup phone for now.
> 
> [unknown number]: Thanks again for everything. Hope you made it home or somewhere safe.

It never ceases to amuse her how he texts with near perfect grammar and spelling and punctuation. And yet, it’s just so _Sam._

Smiling, she taps out a reply, wondering if maybe Mildred is right and she should just go for it.

> EILEEN: Miss me already? ;)

She’s not disappointed when Sam responds in the affirmative.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mildred + Eileen = BROTP
> 
> Also, ten points to the House of the first person who can say where I borrowed/adapted the HP line from (book and event).


	18. Like Riding a Bike

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know before the weekend I said I wasn't going to update until today, but then I had some time yesterday and posted Ch. 17. So, make sure you didn't miss that one!

The ceiling of her room is dark, but in the faint glow of the alarm clock, Mary can see the even darker lines separating the massive slabs of concrete. In the dimness, the lines seem to squiggle and move like worms or something even more unpleasant, and so she squeezes her eyes shut again.

But even that doesn’t really help. Not when she closes her eyes and can see...

Sitting up, she flicks on the bedside light and studies the room. It’s industrial looking, despite her boys’ efforts to make it more pleasant. Dean had returned to the Bunker from a shopping trip about two days ago with a thick periwinkle blue comforter with light ivory pinstripes and a mattress topper.

“It’s memory foam. It’ll remember you,” he’d told her, and then smiled at his own joke.

She must admit, the bed is far more comfortable now than it was the first couple nights.

Sam had set her up with her own laptop, some books, and a small white bookshelf he’d found with a “FREE" sign out on someone’s yard. It has a few chips in the paint, which Sam had looked apologetic about, but it's a quaint piece that reminds her of the one she had in her bedroom growing up; she'd rather have this than something new and blocky and with no character.

Both boys had offered to paint the room something brighter, if she wanted. Maybe she’ll take them up on the offer, or do it herself. She’d always enjoyed painting—not artistically, however. But, she’d taken great pleasure in painting the boys’ rooms before each of them was born, and their living room, and she remembers banishing John from ever touching a paintbrush again. The man had many talents, but painting without getting the stuff everywhere was apparently a skill he would never master, and Mary had had no desire to clean up droplets all over the place. In any case, it was a task that she found peaceful and relaxing, and she’d liked having something to show for it after.

She looks at the clock. 5:17 am. Deciding she’s not going to go back to sleep, she swings her legs out from under the blankets, her toes automatically curling on the cold floor. Maybe she’ll pick up an area rug next. She shrugs on a bathrobe—a light pink one that she’d bought after Dean and Sam had told her emphatically that they’d get her something nicer than one like Dean’s. Even though Dean had protested that there was nothing wrong with _his_ robe, the “dead guy robe,” as Sam called it, he had agreed that Mary could do better. Robed and slippered, she pads out of the room and goes towards the kitchen.

Cutting through the other dormitory hallway, she’s about to round the final corner when she hears a door open and close behind her. Turning, she expects to find Dean, but instead finds Castiel. The angel’s blue eyes grow wide before he adopts a look of careful neutrality.

“I thought I heard something,” he explains, glancing back to the door to Dean’s room. “It was just Dean talking in his sleep.”

Mary suspects that only part of this is true, or that there is more to the story, but she decides to take the angel’s words at face value. “Is he all right?”

Castiel looks torn between wanting to be truthful and not wanting to expose Dean. “He's quiet now,” he finally confesses, and Mary feels relief spread through her; she can only imagine the nightmares her boys have, given what they’ve been through, if her own dreaming is anything to go by. As if he can sense her train of thought, Castiel tilts his head and peers at her. “Are you all right?”

“Just need some coffee. Thought maybe I’d start breakfast,” she deflects, and continues to the kitchen.

She’s still not sure what to make of Castiel. After a week, she knows Sam and Dean—Dean, in particular—think of the angel as family, and she thinks the angel feels the same, even if his emotional range is difficult to decipher. Towards her, Castiel is polite and respectful, but she can see suspicion lurking just behind his gaze.

The coffee is brewing and Mary is sitting at the table with a book—a well-worn copy of  _Slaughterhouse Five_ she'd found left on a side table in the library—when Castiel appears in the kitchen. Without preamble, he sits down across from her and folds his hands on the table.

“You don’t trust me.”

Mary blinks. “What?”

“You don’t trust me,” he repeats. “I understand, considering Heaven’s involvement in your life and the lives of your sons.”

She closes the book, and folds her own hands on the table. “To be fair, you don’t trust me entirely either.”

The smallest of muscles twitches in Castiel’s jaw. He sighs, and looks down at this hands for a moment. “Dean and Sam, they have been through much. And Dean, especially, has always been most trusting of those he...cares for, even if they are not what they appear to be. I'm afraid that they may be blind to the situation. Amara and my Father are not exactly trustworthy, or reliable.”

“You’ve betrayed Dean and Sam’s trust before,” she hedges.

Castiel nods somberly. “I have many sins. I have only begun to atone for them.” He meets her in the eye. “But, they know who I am, what I’ve done. Your sons have a great capacity for forgiveness.”

“This doesn’t exactly help convince me that I should trust you around them,” Mary points out.

“No, perhaps not. I can assure you, I would never harm them. I would—I have—given everything to save them, even if my decisions were...less than ideal.” Castiel moves his hands to his lap, and straightens up. “Did they tell you my latest transgression?”

“No,” Mary replies honestly. She knows that something has happened recently between them, that Castiel was gone for a period of time, but so far it’s only been alluded to vaguely.

“I said ‘yes’ to Lucifer and became his vessel,” he says bluntly. “To stop Amara. The archangels and God had defeated her once before, and I thought it would be the only way I could contribute to the fight. I felt...useless...otherwise.”

“Lucifer?” Mary’s jaw drops.

“Yes. I also..." Castiel draws in a breath. “Sam would probably not like me to share this, but I think it’s important for you to know. By saying ‘yes’ to Lucifer, I knew that he would no longer try to manipulate or harm Sam.”

“Why Sam?”

“Sam is his vessel. His true vessel. Just as Dean is Michael’s—through John’s bloodline.”

The bile rises in Mary’s throat, and she doesn’t even register the soft beep of the coffeemaker signaling that the brew is ready. Her brain reels with these revelations, and finally she breathes out, “If John is responsible for Michael, does that mean I...?”

Castiel nods. “I’m sorry. His alternate vessel, Nick, I believe, was mostly likely a distant cousin of yours.” He lifts one hand from his lap, and hesitantly reaches towards her. Without thinking, she flinches back, and Castiel lets his hand fall on the table between them. He frowns sadly. “It's not a failing on your part. Or Sam’s.”

She doesn’t quite believe him, and she can feel the guilt threatening to drown her again. Everything she learns about this future world—this _present,_ she corrects herself—continues to scream at her, _This is your fault. This is all your fault._

“Please, Mary,” Castiel continues, his voice soft despite its gravelly roughness. “Don't blame yourself. This was the will of Heaven for generations and eons. There's nothing you could have done to stop it. When I brought Dean back to 1973, he tried to do just that. But it was always meant to be this way.”  

Mary rubs a hand over her eyes and takes a deep breath. She regards the angel before him, and then asks, almost defensively, “So, you said ‘yes’ to Lucifer. Does that mean Claire’s family is somehow distantly related, too?”

“No,” Castiel huffs with mild and somewhat bitter amusement. “That would be..." He trails off, then clears his throat. “I was obliterated and brought back by God in this form. Twice. Jimmy Novak’s soul was released to Heaven. This body was essentially created to house an angel, and so it could accept Lucifer’s Grace. But even then, his Grace is tainted and powerful, and it nearly burned through my vess—my body.”

Considering this, Mary peers at him. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Honesty,” he answers simply. “Trust without transparency requires faith, but I know the Winchesters. Faith is...difficult.”

One corner of Mary’s mouth turns up in an echo of Castiel’s. “And yet you still don’t trust _me._ ”

“That is not a matter of you, personally. I believe that _you_ believe that you are real and human and uncorrupted. I don't believe you wish any malice on Sam and Dean.”

“But...?”

“You were resurrected by Amara, the Darkness. She is my Father’s opposite, who created all. Amara was hardly known for her creative abilities.”

“Oh.”

“There is a way to test you, so we can be sure. But it's very painful.”

Mary considers this, thinking of Jody’s distrust of her, how even she had been wary of Dean when they’d first met in Eden, South Dakota. She thinks of her nightmares, the feeling of emptiness that haunts her when she wakes, the fact that she has come back about fifteen years older than when she died.

_Did I come back wrong?_

“What do I do?” she asks in a near whisper.

“Nothing. But I would have to touch your soul.”

“Oh, is that all?”

Castiel smiles wryly.

“What?” Her eyes narrow.

The angel lifts a shoulder, almost imperceptibly. “Dean would say the same, with the same expression. It’s simply amusing to see the similarities.” He sighs. “I understand if you don't want to go through with this. Especially not with me.”

Mary gets up, takes a mug from next to the coffeemaker, and pours herself a cup. She doesn’t even bother to go for the cream and sugar; black is what she needs right now. Every hunter’s instinct in her tells her not to trust Castiel, and she can almost hear her father’s voice telling her in no uncertain terms that’d she be a fool to listen to him, and even more foolish not to kill him. But, glancing back at the almost dejected looking angel, and thinking of the way Dean and Sam seem to accept him as one of them, she reaches a decision.

Mug in hand, she returns to the table. “I need to know,” she says at last. “I feel like I don’t quite belong. I’m grateful to Amara or whoever for bringing me back, and being with Sam and Dean and seeing them like this, whole and safe...it’s a gift. One I thought I’d never have. But before, I was..." She stares into the coffee, dark and opaque. How can she possibly explain? For days now, she’s felt torn in two directions: towards her sons and towards her place in Heaven with John. She’s grateful for this, she is, more than she can ever express, which only adds to her guilt when she wakes up clinging to the memories of _before_. “You probably wouldn’t understand.”

"...what it’s like to be exiled from Heaven?” Castiel asks wryly, but not unkindly.

She snaps her head up. “Oh. Right.”

He shakes his head. “It’s not the same, I know. But...I think I understand, to a degree.”

They sit quietly for a moment, both contemplating their respective losses. What’s the saying? Misery loves company?

“How long will it take to, you know, touch my soul?”

“Seconds. At least, it shouldn't take long. I’ve never done it while cut off from Heaven’s power. But my own power is sufficiently restored by now.”

Pursing her lips, she looks straight at the angel. “I’m finishing my coffee first.”

 

 

They go to the shooting range, so her screams will be muffled. Neither wishes to alarm the brothers.

Her voice is hoarse after the longest three seconds of her life, and Castiel looks about ready to collapse when he finishes. She feels...unsettled, to her core, to the very center of her being. But the pain recedes quickly once he’s done.

“Am I...Am I whole?”

The angel pants, and nods. “Yes.”

“Do you trust me now?”

“Yes.” He shakes his head. “I never wanted to doubt you. I just...had to be sure. I couldn’t let Dean and Sam be hurt again.”

Mary reaches out to the angel, steadying him. “I think trust you more now, too.”

He blinks, as if surprised. “Thank you.”

For an angel, Castiel can sound incredibly human, Mary reflects.

 

 

The next couple days follow in much the same way as the previous: Mary and her sons try to become acclimated to living together, alternating between excitement over some new discovery or opportunity to share, and melancholic nostalgia for what could have been and what has been.

To absolutely nobody’s surprise, Dean takes it upon himself to educate Mary in all things cinematic, starting, of course, with a box set of something apparently called DVDs that contain the _Stark Trek_ films.

“I’ve seen the first two,” she points out one night when they’re crammed into Sam’s room, which houses the Bunker’s only TV. Dean is in the process of starting up _Star Trek: The Motion Picture_ , after lecturing about how it’s not as good, but you have to start there if you want to get to _The Wrath of Khan_ and do the whole series right _._

Dean considers, then does some mental math. “ _Khan_ came out in ‘82,” he nods. “All right, so you gotta catch up on the rest.”

“And after that, there’s several seasons of _The Next Generation_ ,” Castiel adds dryly from a chair. “And _Voyager_ , and _Deep Space Nine_..."

“And don’t even get him started on the new movies,” Sam chimes in as he enters the room, carrying a bowl of popcorn and an armful of beers.

“Shut up, all of you,” Dean grumbles.

The next night, they’re not even halfway through _The Voyage Home_ when Sam suddenly lets out a, “Huh. Now I get it.”

“Get what?” Dean asks, eyes barely leaving the screen.

“The phoenix. Sunrise, Wyoming.”

Mary puts her beer down on the bedside table. “A phoenix? You saw an actual phoenix?”

Dean and Sam share grins, and Dean pauses the movie. “All right, this is a good story..."

After regaling her with their encounters with a phoenix and Samuel Colt in 1861 (and Mary still can’t believe the things her sons have seen and done, even if the story is amusing, and tragic, when the backstory of the phoenix is revealed), Castiel comments, “Sam’s phone returning to you was very similar to _Back to the Future._ ”

“What’s _Back to the Future?_ ” Judging from Sam’s groan, Mary suspects she should not have asked, especially when she sees the expression on Dean's face.

After the _Star Trek_ marathon ends, Dean insists on a marathon of the adventures of Marty McFly and Doc Brown the following night. It’s during the first film that Mary is startled to realize that Dean’s trip to 1973 bears a striking resemblance to Marty’s time in 1955, including the awkward family dinner.

“At least I didn’t ask you to prom,” she remarks, with a shudder.

Dean nearly chokes on his beer, Castiel actually chuckles, and Sam has to leave the room he’s laughing so hard.

 

 

The next day, Mary can tell Sam and Dean are starting to get restless. Each morning, she notices that Sam checks his laptop, and over his shoulder, she’s seen the news sites. He always quickly closes the articles when he realizes she’s there, but she knows they’re for potential hunts.

Dean gets antsy, and she’s pretty sure he’s cleaned the cars in the garage at least three times, lectured Cas about maintenance on the angel’s Lincoln Continental, and killed several targets dead in the shooting range.

Finally, one night at dinner with just the three of them (Castiel had opted to continue reading), she decides to rip off the bandaid.

“I know you guys want to hunt,” she declares.

Dean’s spoon of chili freezes halfway to his mouth before he puts it down and looks to Sam. Sam rubs the back of his neck and cringes.

“We thought you wouldn’t..." Sam sighs. “We, uh, we know how you feel. About us being hunters.”

Mary grimaces. “It’s not what I wanted for you. For my family. But...I know why you do it. I know why my parents did it. It’s important. People need to be saved.”

The brothers let out simultaneous breaths of relief, and the tension in the room lessens considerably.

“We think we have a case, in Minnesota,” Dean says. “Friend of ours—another sheriff, friend of Jody’s, too—called and said she’s got some weird thefts going on up there.”

“Do you...do you want to come?” Sam asks hesitantly.

Mary smirks a challenge, knowing it might help ease the awkwardness. “I’m sure I can show you a thing or two.”

Dean and Sam regard each other with raised eyebrows.

“You’re on, Mom,” Dean smiles.

 

 

The drive to Minnesota is marred only by the funk Dean sometimes sinks into about the fact that Castiel had opted to remain behind. Apparently, the angel had “something he needed to do,” and Dean had given a terse, “fine,” before practically storming off to pack. Mary had left the library just after that, but had lingered in the hallway when she heard Sam address the angel.

“You’re not leaving, are you?” her younger son had asked, in a tone that clearly said that the correct answer was “no.”

“I will return, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Look, Cas, it’s not that I don’t want you here, too. I do. You’re family. But..." There was a pause, and then Sam had sighed. “If you leave, I...I dunno what Dean would do.”

“I’m sorry. I know..." A beat. “I know that Dean was...distraught. When I was gone.”

“Understatement. I wanted you back, too, man. But, Dean..."

“I’m aware. I promise. I will return. This is just something I have to do.”

“You call us if you need anything.”

“I will. Be safe.”

“You, too.”

Somewhere in Iowa, Sam finally grumbles, after catching Dean check his phone again, “If you’re worried about Cas, just call him.”

“What? I’m not..." Dean stammers. “Look, the dude’s been through a lot lately. And it’s not like he’s exactly ten for ten on good decisions.”

“He’d call if he was in trouble.”

“Yeah, ‘cause he’s always been good about that.”

Mary decides this conversation isn’t going anywhere, and leans forward from the backseat. “Enough. Both of you. I’m not listening to you snipe at each other the entire way there.”

Chagrined, the brothers stop immediately. Well, until Dean notices Sam checking his own phone a few miles later.

“So, how’s _Eileen_?” Dean practically sing songs.

“She’s fine,” Sam replies succinctly. “She says to tell you you’re an overbearing ass.”

Dean scoffs. “No she didn’t. I’m awesome. Eileen knows that.”

“No, really, right here.” Sam holds up his phone, and pretends to read off the screen, "‘Dean is a jerk.’”

Dean reaches for the phone, while still staring at the road ahead of them. He misses, and Sam snaps his hand back out of reach...for Dean, at least. Mary grabs it, and settles back in her seat. Sam whips around as if ready to wrestle it back from her before his brain kicks in and he remembers just who it is that he’s up against.

She raises an eyebrow. “You want me to read through your messages?” she threatens. She wouldn’t actually do it (she has no desire to cross that line), but even the thought of it is enough to make Sam’s face blanche, which makes it all worth it. Dean cackles from the front seat. “Don’t think I won’t get a hold of your phone, too, Dean.”

That shuts him right up.

The rest of the ride is blissfully bicker-free.

 

 

“You must be Mrs. Winchester!” the blonde sheriff, Donna Hanscum, enthuses before Dean and Sam can make the introductions. “Nice to meetcha!”

They’re outside the police station, each of them dressed in their “Fed suits"—a quick stop to a mall on the way here had netted Mary an uncomfortable pantsuit (apparently, they haven’t improved much in the past few decades), and Sam had provided her with an FBI badge after an impromptu photo shoot and a stop at store called Kinko’s.

“You can call me Mary,” she answers, holding out a hand to shake. Donna waves off the hand and gives her a hug instead.

“Jody told me all aboutcha,” Donna grins, then stage whispers conspiratorially to Sam and Dean, “Kinda half the reason why I called you guys in: was hoping to meet the whole family.”

Sam and Dean return Donna’s smile and seem thankful for her easy acceptance of Mary. Dean jerks a thumb behind him towards the road, “Did I see a sign for a Prince tribute concert and a local food and beer festival on the way in?”

“Sure did,” Donna nods. “Can getcha tickets, if ya want.”

“Oh, definitely count us in,” Dean grins, but then looks to the rest of the group. “But, first we got a case.”

“You said there’s been a lot of strange thefts?” Sam asks.

“Yep,” Donna says, leading them back into the station. They go into her office, and she slides a folder over to them. “Three jewelry shops, all hit by this one guy. He’s a known thief. Did a stint in the big house already for knocking over a couple of liquor stores.”

Dean frowns. “So, why’d you call us in? Doesn’t sound like our kinda thing.”

“Well,” Donna continues, “you’re right about that. But, the third robbery? He’s got an airtight alibi.”

“Alibis can be faked,” Mary says, not to be contrary, but just to work through the problem out loud. She takes the folder off of the desk, and starts to flip through it.

“Not when his alibi is sleeping off a drunk and disorderly in one of the cells down the hall,” Donna replies. All three Winchesters raise their eyebrows at that. Donna laughs. “Can tell you’re all related.”

Mary isn’t focused on that, though. From the folder, she holds up a security picture from one of the robberies. Donna nods in the direction of the picture.

“That’s the other part that made me call you folks in. All three stores got photos like that.”

Dean groans when he sees the picture, and Sam looks displeased as well; the suspect’s eyes are flashing in each one.

“I freaking hate shifters, man.”

Sam and Mary can only agree with him. Donna just asks, “So, what’s a shifter?”

 

 

Just to be sure that their drunk and disorderly suspect, a man by the name of Damien Wyatt, is not, in fact, a shifter, they replay the tapes of his interrogations earlier in the week. Nothing that could even be mistaken for a lens flare.

“Who would have access to Wyatt’s arrest record? Would know he’s a good scapegoat?” Sam asks.

“Loads of people, I bet,” Donna frowns. “It’s a small town. People talk. He had a real hard time finding a job when he got out.”

“What’s he do?” Mary wonders.

“There’s a temp agency in town, works with former inmates.”

“Any of ‘em relapse?” Dean asks.

Donna bites her lower lip in thought. “Oh, I’m sure. Actually, we just had one ‘bout six months ago. Felt real bad: this kid, Stephen Greely, looked like he was gonna finally turn his life around, but then..."

“Theft?” Mary asks, finally putting the pieces together.

“Yeah,” Donna sighs. “Got in a car accident trying to outrun the cops once they tracked him down. Kid didn’t make it.”

“Got the name of his caseworker at the agency?” Sam asks.

 

 

Armed with silver blades, they wait outside the house of one Maggie Frobisher, caseworker for both Damien Wyatt and the late Stephen Greely. It’s dark in the Impala; Dean made sure to park the car away from any streetlights.

“So, you hunt and are a sheriff?” Mary asks Donna, who is sitting next to her.

“Oh yeah. Didn’t even know about my first case until I ran into Sam and Dean again at my second,” Donna laughs. “Still thought they were Federal agents. Was a real shock when Jody told me all about vampires, I tell ya.”

“And then you went to town on those vamps,” Dean adds from the driver’s seat.

“And then again on the haunted costume case,” Sam chimes in.

Mary smiles at the genuine praise from her sons towards the sheriff, and Donna flushes slightly.

“Learned from the best,” Donna deflects.

“Hey, that’s our cue,” Sam points to the house. A car pulls in, and a woman fitting Maggie’s description gets out and goes in the front door.

“Show time,” Dean agrees, and they clamber out of the car.

It’d been years since Mary had hunted by the time she...died...but the hilt of the silver machete feels oddly comfortable in her grip. Sam and Dean move with the silence and ease of long familiarity, and she can’t help but feel almost superfluous. As they approach the edge of the property, they split up: Dean and Donna take the front, while Sam and Mary go around to the back door. Sam quickly jimmies the lock, and they step inside. They hear a crash and a roar of “Goddammit!”, and they rush to the front of the house. In the kitchen, they find Donna holding, and looking horrified, at slippery pieces of shifter skin, while Dean is nursing a wrist. A screen door that must lead to the side of the house is flapping open.

“Bitch came after me with a fucking frying pan,” he grits out. Sam just nods and goes out the screen door.

“Donna?” Mary asks cautiously. The name seems to jolt the sheriff out of her shock, and she quickly drops the skin and wipes her hand on her pant leg.

“I’m good,” Donna nods. “Dean?”

Dean’s already halfway out the door, but Mary notices he’s holding his left arm gingerly. “Probably a sprain. C’mon.”

Outside, they see Sam jogging back into the yard. “Think she doubled back or something,” he pants out.

“Shit,” Dean grumbles.  

They split up into pairs again to search for any sign of the shifter. After about ten minutes of fruitless searching, Mary is ready to go back and try a new direction.

“I don’t think she went this way,” Mary tells Sam. “Head back and see if Dean and Donna had more luck?”

“Good idea,” Sam agrees. They’re just rounding the corner to head back in the direction of Maggie’s house, when Donna jogs up to them.

“Found something,” the sheriff calls out, then turns back the way she came.

Mary and Sam look at each other, then follow. But as soon as they reach the secluded property and are out of sight of the road, Sam grabs Donna by the sleeve of her shirt.

“Whatcha think you’re doing?” the sheriff sputters indignantly, trying to fight her way out of his hold.

“You’re not Donna,” he says, nicking her with his knife, just to be sure.

Immediately, the shifter hisses in pain, and her expression twists into a cruel sneer. She opens her mouth, but Mary decides she has no desire to hear what the monster has to say. Sam forces the shifter to her knees, Mary raises the machete and swings with all of her might. The blow is jarring against her arms, but the blade is sharpened to a keen edge and it slices through the shifter’s neck; the head topples to the ground.

Mary lifts an arm to wipe the spray of blood from her face, and Dean and Donna, the real one, come into view around the corner of the house.

“Wait,” Sam calls out, and Dean puts a hand up to stop Donna before she can get too close.

“You don’t want to see this,” he explains, correctly interpreting Sam’s warning.

“What, you think I can’t handle it?” Donna asks, crossing her arms and staring down Dean.

“Trust me,” Mary adds. The sheriff peers at her, then looks to the dark ground at Mary’s feet.

The shifter’s blonde hair shines in the faint light from the house’s windows, and Donna says, “Son of a gun! Did she...to me?”

Mary nods. Donna takes a step back and looks like she’s about to vomit. “We’ll take care of it,” she assures the sheriff.

“Yeah, yeah, ok,” Donna nods breathlessly.

“I’ll take her back to the car.”

Sam gives Dean a look, and teases, “You just want to get out of work.”

Dean raises his wrist in defense. It’s swollen and bruised, but Mary’s pretty sure that in any other circumstances, Dean would probably ignore the injury until the job was done. But she’s also pretty sure that this is Dean’s way of making Donna feel less bad about not helping out.

“We’ve got this,” Mary says, and she and Sam prepare to burn the shifter body.

As satisfying as it is to see a job well done, and to know that people are safe from a monster, Mary hates a little that hunting seems to be just like riding a bike.

“I think I’m gonna want to shower for a week,” Donna grimaces on the way back to her house, looking at her hand, the one that had ended up with a handful of shifter goo, like it’s about to attack her.

“Told ya. Freaking hate shifters,” Dean commiserates.

“Amen to that,” Donna agrees as they pull up to the curb outside her house. They pile out of the car to say their good-byes, saying they’re going to crash at the motel and head out bright and early in the morning. “One of these days you’ll have to come up here without some monster creeping about.”

“Hibbing Food Fest,” Dean reminds her.

Donna smiles. “You betcha. See you then!”

Once they’re back in the car, Mary leans forward into the front seat. “How’s the wrist, Dean?”

“Nothing a couple aspirin for now and some angel mojo later can’t fix. Still can’t believe it: a fucking frying pan.”

“Shouldn’t have tried blocking it with your _wrist_ , Dean,” Sam rolls his eyes. “Face, maybe…"

“Screw you.”

“Think Cas’ll be ok to heal you?” Sam wonders after a pause.

Dean frowns, turning the ignition with his right hand, his left resting in his lap; Sam had wrapped it up for Dean with an ace bandage from their emergency medical kit. “Hope so.”

The frown doesn’t leave Dean’s expression the entire way back to the motel, or the entire way back to Kansas the next day. Mary sincerely hopes, for her son’s sake, that the angel will be there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I <3 Donna. I'm sorry I don't have more space for her in this fic but I have SO much still to go with these characters.
> 
> Just as I make no apologies for the Star Wars references, I make none for this chapter's love letter to Star Trek. Or Back to the Future, for that matter.


	19. You Can't Go Home Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, part of this chapter overlaps the previous.

An arm across Castiel’s waist wakes him from his nightly rest, which is probably more akin to deep meditation than sleep. He cracks an eye and looks sidelong at Dean’s slumbering form, sprawled artlessly on his stomach on his side of the mattress. Even in the dark room, Cas sees when the hunter’s shoulders suddenly hunch up and his forehead creases in concern. His Grace may not be powerful enough to dreamwalk or to erase Dean’s nightmares (which is probably best, as Cas knows Dean would especially take exception to the latter), but he has enough to sooth the man, not unlike how he performed his “Jedi mind tricks,” as Eileen had called them, on the airport security personnel. Dean relaxes but his arm still remains looped over Cas’ stomach, its warm weight even more pleasant than the covers Dean had insisted Cas sleep under following their first night together.

“It’s just fucking weird if you sleep on top of the covers,” the hunter had grumbled, even though Cas has known the man to do just that in many a motel room, especially after an exhausting hunt or when their safety is not entirely secured.

As he only rests for perhaps four or five hours each night, and Dean has taken advantage of the relative peace of the world and is sleeping closer to six or seven hours, Cas naturally wakes before the hunter each morning and steals out of the room. They never mention it the next day, and in fact, Cas had hardly expected a repeat invitation after the first time. He’d assumed that Dean was just being a friend, but would eventually want to reclaim the privacy and personal space he has always seemed to cherish.

But the second night, Cas had once again balked at the idea of stepping foot in “his" bedroom, the bedroom he had thought he would have when he became human, the bedroom to which he retired each night, still shackled, while under Rowena’s spell, the bedroom in which he had languished when not “binging" on Netflix in Sam’s room. Resolved not to make an issue of it, he had settled in one of the library chairs after he'd assumed everyone else had gone to bed, resting his head on his arms folded on a table.

“Cas,” a gruff voice had shaken him to consciousness. “You’re gonna be sore as hell if you sleep like that.”

“It’s not sleep,” Cas had muttered in Dean’s general direction.

“Whatever.” Dean rolled his eyes and had taken Cas under the elbow and half-hoisted him up, despite the angel’s capability to move on his own, thank you very much. “C’mon, you can power down or whatever you wanna call it somewhere more comfortable.”

“I don’t want to go to my— _that_ room, Dean.”

Dean had stopped walking from the library as soon as Cas had pulled out of his grip. “Yeah, I know,” he’d said softly. “I figured, last night wasn’t bad, right? So it’d work for tonight? We can fix you up another room tomorrow, if you want.”

There was such vulnerability and such hope in Dean’s voice, but Cas was still cautious, unsure he was interpreting the situation correctly.

“I don’t want to impose on your space.”

“Not imposing, man.”

And so each night since, they have wordlessly climbed into bed, each staying to his own side of the mattress, until Castiel slips out in the quiet hours of the morning. From Dean’s room, he typically goes outside the Bunker to the embankment—where they had talked that first evening back—to watch the sunrise. After Lucifer, Castiel finds he craves the outdoors, the fresh air, the wide open spaces. Some mornings, Dean will eventually join him with a cup of coffee. Other mornings, Sam will pant his way up the hill after his morning jog, flop bonelessly into the grass, and then try to convince Cas to join him the next day, never mind Cas’ repeated reminders that he needs no physical exercise as an angel.

“You’d probably still like it,” Sam often argues.

“Maybe,” Cas will often allow.

Dean’s mornings with coffee are usually quieter, except on the days that the hunter has decided he has a Big Plan for the day (usually involving car maintenance or introducing Mary to some new facet of the world of 2016), in which case, he speaks with great enthusiasm, cajoling Cas to participate. And of course, Cas always does.

But that has been the extent of their interactions with each other and Cas feels...confused. He feels resolved to content himself with this, whatever it is. He longs for more. He fears for what more might mean. He greatly fears what he might do if he attains this elusive _more_ and later loses it or is rejected.

And so, he says nothing. And Dean says nothing. And they go about each day as though they are just like any other two people. Or, one person and an angel.

Tonight, though, the invisible barrier between them is broken by a single arm across a single waist.

And Cas has no idea what to do.

Eventually, after exactly twenty-seven minutes and six seconds—Cas counts all one thousand six hundred and twenty-six seconds silently in his head—he decides he will not be resting and replenishing his Grace anymore, nor will Dean be waking or moving anytime soon, especially now that his nightmares have been soothed. Gently, he eases himself out from under Dean’s arm without disturbing the hunter and he dresses himself. That had been another one of Dean’s rules; apparently even angels who are not truly sleeping must conform to human conventions about appropriate sleepwear, meaning boxers and his undershirt as he has no other pajamas. Looking back once more at Dean, Cas slowly opens the door and steps out into the hallway, letting the door shut softly behind him.

But he is not alone in the hallway.

Mary Winchester is there, looking just as surprised as he feels.

Thankfully, she seems to accept his excuse about overhearing Dean having a nightmare and goes to the kitchen. He paces in the hallway for a moment—a habit he’s sure he picked up from Dean—trying to think about what he should do next.

He suspects that the Winchesters’ mother is leery of him, and he has had his own doubts about her, but they have not yet had any opportunity alone to confront each other. Perhaps this is that opportunity.

Their conversation in the kitchen is frank, and at times painful. It is far less painful than the soul test he performs on her later in the shooting range. His Grace, which had been nearly restored before, drops dangerously low again, and Castiel knows it will probably be another week until he is anything close to approaching normal.

But, Mary looks at him, there in the shooting range, and assures him that she trusts him, at least, more than before. Her eyes are warm even behind the lingering pain of the soul test and Castiel finds himself starting to believe that he may be able to stay here, with the Winchesters, after all.

A few days later, Dean and Sam announce a case in Minnesota and Cas tries to decline the offer to accompany them without upsetting them. He fails miserably. Dean is angry, Sam issues a thinly-veiled warning that Castiel better return. Castiel promises the younger brother he will and is thankful that neither man asks him what he is planning. He knows they would not approve, but it must be done. Perhaps he can make them—make Dean—understand when he is finished.

 

 

The farmhouse looks far older in the light of day, and the Lincoln Continental rumbles over the unpaved driveway with less ease than Eileen’s truck had. The engine _pings_ as it cools down and the door hinges creak as he opens them. But before Castiel has even planted both feet on the ground, the screen door of the house slams shut and a woman appears on the porch, both hands planted on her hips.

Siobhán, the psychic, Castiel recalls Eileen telling him.

The old woman peers at him through grey-green eyes that have become dull with age and wisps of her curly hair dance in the breeze that is a welcome relief on this warm day.

“You,” she calls out. Her voice is strong despite her age. “You’re the one who showed up in my back field.”

“Yes,” he answers. “I—"

“I thought Eileen took care of it.”

“She did. We discovered we have mutual acquaintances and she was able to assist me in rescuing one of them.”

Siobhán snorts. “Fool girl.” But Castiel suspects there’s more reluctant fondness in the insult than any true disparagement; years of hearing Bobby Singer call everyone an “idjit" had taught him that. The psychic then asks, with far less kindness and far more sharpness, “What are you?”

The crux of the matter.

“An angel. My name is Castiel.”

Another snort. “You don’t read like one.”

“I don't have access to my full power. That's actually why I'm here.”

“No,” the psychic replies. “It’s not that. Not the amount of power. You’re not human, that’s pretty clear, but..." She shakes her head, dismissing the train of thought. “What’d you want from me?”

“Your permission,” he states, trying to inject his voice with deference, hoping it will make her more amenable to his request. “As I said, I'm not at full power. And Heaven has sealed its doors. But I wish to communicate with the Host.”

“You think you got a better shot with the Circle.”

“I do.”

There’s a reason Castiel had landed in this field outside Stull, Kansas, besides the nearby cemetery and its Biblical importance. The Circle, as Siobhán called it, is a weak place between the planes of existence, although calling it weak is really a misnomer. Weak in the sense that the barriers between the planes are easier to pass through, yes, but the Circle is also a place of great energy. It’s not quite the equivalent of Grace or the power of Heaven, but it may help. Its temporal permeability may also make contacting Heaven possible.

The psychic considers him intently; Castiel pushes his Grace and his intents to the forefront of his consciousness. He’s not sure entirely what she sees what she looks at him, but he hopes that she can see that he means her no ill will.

“Get you gone when you’re done,” she decides at last. “And that car of yours better not drip oil all over my driveway.”

“I assure you, it won't.” Cas smiles to himself, recalling Dean’s thorough inspection of the vehicle three days ago. Cas had had to remind the hunter that he could hardly be held responsible for the car’s condition while it had been in Metatron’s hands.

“Hrmph,” is the psychic’s only reply as she turns and reenters the house. The screen door batters against the jamb when she disappears. Castiel suddenly understands why, other than the time constraints of having to rescue Sam, Eileen had left the psychic’s property without a word to Siobhán; the old woman would most likely have been less than pleased to be disturbed.

The uneven ground is easier to navigate under a bright sun and Castiel reaches the Circle quickly. From a pocket, he draws out a large piece of yellow chalk from a box of several colorful sticks apparently marketed for children that he’d purchased from a convenience store on the way here. He moves around the circle, scrawling Enochian sigils on each of the rocks, some for warding, others for communication, and still more for protection.

Another pocket holds a plastic water bottle of holy oil; he’d contemplated taking the entire earthenware jar from the Winchesters’ store, but had decided against that in case the brothers found themselves in need of it. The bottle is empty once Castiel finishes his circle of it and he sincerely hopes he will have no cause to set it afire. Before he begins, he checks his phone, a replacement for the one he broke here—only half of the signal bars are full, but he supposes that’s better than nothing, especially in such a rural area—and the lighter he’d acquired when he’d bought the chalk. It flicks easily and creates a small flame. Satisfied, Castiel returns the items to his pocket.

He removes his shoes and socks; his feet sink into the soft ground. At least, here, it is soft and the grass is lush. Elsewhere, the grass is brownish and bears testament to the unseasonably dry weather of late. But the rules seem not to apply in the Circle. Through this simple point of contact, Castiel can feel the energy of the Earth, and the swirling power of this thin place between realities. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, drawing as much of the power into him as he can. It mingles with his Grace, but remains separate; it is not his power.

Opening his eyes, he begins his prayer.

“I, Castiel, Angel of—" He pauses, stumbling over his usual title, 'Angel of the Lord.' “—Angel from Heaven and now on Earth, implore the Host of Heaven to hear my prayer.”

He looks upward to the blue Kansas sky. Other than the sun and a single wispy cloud, far off towards the horizon, the sky is an unbroken dome of blue.

 **Castiel.**

The air in the Circle shimmers blue with the disembodied voice that he hears more in his mind and in his Grace than with his ears. Unconsciously, Castiel lets out a sigh of relief that the angels have not deigned to descend to Earth to address him in person.

“I know your voice, sister. Saraqael, is it not?”

 **Yes. What is it you want, Castiel?**

“To declare my allegiance, once and for all.”

 **Your allegiance? What makes you think, after all you have done, that Heaven would accept your word and bond?**

“You mistake me. I am not here to align myself with Heaven. I am well aware of my sins against the Host, and I do not expect you to forgive or forget so easily.”

 **So you have decided, once and for all, to abandon your brethren. Your family. You turn your back on Heaven.**

Castiel lets out a dark chuckle. “Yes, my brethren and family. The Host seems to only be interested in including me in that number when it is convenient to them. Efram and Jonah and others made it quite clear that I was no longer their brother.”

 **And then you killed them.**

“Yes. I regret that. I regret the deaths of all the angels I have killed, even those I considered enemies. I regret that I could find no peace among the Host, and that much of it was my own doing.”

If a disembodied voice can sound exasperated, Saraqael manages it.

 **Why have you come to us, Castiel?**

“To explain the terms of my exile.”

 **You are arrogant to assume you have any say in your terms.**

“Perhaps. I have been prideful in the past. But I am not here to negotiate.”

 **Speak plainly, Castiel.**

“I will not attempt to return to Heaven, whether the angels open the gates again or not.”

 **These are hardly terms of exile that need declaration.**

“I am not finished. I said I wish to declare my allegiance. My allegiance is to humanity, to Earth. The angels have forgotten their mission, sister. I no longer consider myself an angel of Heaven.”

 **And by humanity, you mean the Winchesters.**

“They are my family.” The words come of Castiel’s mouth easily, as though he has always known it to be so. “But the Winchesters are not the only humans on Earth.”

 **Are you declaring yourself an enemy of Heaven?**

“Only if the Host chooses to see me as such. I wish no harm on Heaven. I vow not to raise a hand to any angel, unless they come against those I love or intend to harm another. I have always wanted peace, Saraqael. You know this. You followed me, once.”

 **Yes, once. But I did not approve your methods.**

“In retrospect, I do not approve of many of my methods,” he confesses.

There’s a pause before Saraqael resumes, and the swirling blue light seems caught up in thought.

 **You will no longer have access to Heaven’s power, although your Grace is your own.**

“I did not expect anything more,” he nods.

Somehow, Saraqael’s voice softens, and Castiel is grateful that of all the Host, it is she who responded. He had not known her well, but Saraqael has always had a reputation for being fair and even-minded in her judgments.

 **You realize that you are an immortal being, Castiel. Humans, the Winchesters, are not.**

“I am aware.” Memories of standing before Dean, the blood of the Stynes streaking the hunter's face, and declaring that he would stay by his side, even when everyone else is long gone, surface in his mind. He will always stay with them, with Dean, to the end. He has come to realize that immortality can be a blessing and a curse.

 **You do not wish to live beyond their lives.**

Saraqael was always more insightful than many of the Host.

Castiel lets his silence speak.

 **You would end your life, our Father’s greatest gift.**

“Perhaps. Being alive and living are not synonymous. I have lived more in the past eight years than I have in the millennia before that.”

 **I do not understand.**

“I wouldn’t expect you to.”

Another pause, and Saraqael’s voice seems almost mournful.

 **There are many who want you brought to justice for setting Lucifer free.**

“And I may deserve it. But I hope that Heaven can accept my exile as its own justice. Perhaps we can end the cycle of violence.”

 **I can make no promises on behalf of every angel, Castiel. Heaven is sealed for now, but...**

“I know. Thank you, Saraqael, for your warning and for your acceptance.”

 **I wish you peace, Castiel.**

“And I, you.”

At once, the blue light blinks out of existence, and the thrum of power through the ground recedes. Castiel sinks to his knees, his head bowed. Tears form and he makes no move to wipe them. They fall heavily onto his dark dress pants, soaking into the fabric in even darker circles. He has made his decision, and he does not regret it. And so why does he mourn?

He remembers searching for his Grace in that library, and Metatron’s questions that had sunk their claws into him.

 _Like, who are you now? Like, you’re obviously not an Angel of the Lord._

_So tell me, Castiel, truly, what is your mission now?_

The questions had gnawed at him, had whispered to him from the dark corners of his mind: _He’s right. You are not an Angel of the Lord. What are you, Castiel?_

Standing, he finally accepts the answer he has held in his heart longer than he has wanted to admit.

He is the Angel of Earth. The Angel of Humanity.

He is Castiel. Cas.

 

 

The Bunker is too quiet without Sam and Dean, and Mary, inside.

Cas instead goes to a store. He purchases four items: a t-shirt, shorts, socks, and running shoes.

During his run, he thinks Sam might be onto something. There is something inherently pleasant about the repetitive movement of his muscles, the pounding of his feet against pavement, the whispers of wind through his hair. He pauses at one point to observe, surreptitiously (for he knows what some might assume otherwise), a group of children spilling out of an elementary school’s doors into the arms of waiting parents.

Yes, this is what he has chosen.

The light inside the Bunker is unchanging. And yet, as night approaches, it seems darker. He hopes the Winchesters will return soon.

He checks his phone, hoping that their silence is due to their being busy with the case, not to any danger.  

Eventually, when he decides it is time to rest his Grace for the night, he goes to Dean’s room, and crawls under the covers.

The other side of the bed is too empty.

 

 

The Winchesters return to the Bunker with all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop, Castiel believes is the saying. Dean in particular storms up from the garage with his duffel slung over one shoulder. Mary and Sam follow in his wake, talking, but far more subdued.

“Cas!” Dean barks out. “You better be here, man.”

Thinking of Sam’s words before they had departed for Minnesota, Cas quickly stands from where he’d been sitting at a library table, translating one of their Enochian texts and correcting the factual errors.

“I’m right here, Dean,” he says, quite unnecessarily, since the hunter can see just that. “Sam, Mary,” he greets to the other two Winchesters in turn. “How was the hunt?”

“Fine, just a shifter,” Sam replies, looking uneasily between his brother and the angel.

“Sam, why don’t we get...from the car...?” Mary suggests, giving Castiel a quick, but significant, glance.

“Oh yeah,” Sam agrees, and they hurry off again.

Dean suddenly seems to realize what has happened, and he snorts, before rounding on Cas. “So, you back from whatever top secret mission you just _had_ to go on?”

“Obviously,” Cas replies, his hackles rising. He doesn’t want to fight with Dean, but the accusation in the hunter’s tone hits too close to the guilt Cas has been carrying with him.

“Awesome,” Dean mutters, adjusting the strap on his shoulder. As the hand comes up, Cas notices the ace bandage wrapped expertly around his wrist, palm, and thumb.

“You’re injured.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Dean.” Cas sighs. “Let me fix it.”

“I said it’s fine.”

“I don’t want to fight with you, Dean.” He lets his shoulders deflate. “I just want to help.”

Dean’s posture relaxes minutely in defeated exhaustion. He runs a hand over his face, and sighs. “I know. I just...You left again, man. Didn’t say why. And no offense, and I’m not trying to start shit up here, because I want to trust you, but...”

“It’s not a secret, where I went.”

“You didn’t tell me before.”

“You didn’t ask,” Cas counters, and retakes his seat at the head of one of the tables. “But, I might not have told you, if you had. You would have stopped me.”

“Not exactly instilling a lot of confidence here, buddy.” He crosses to the table, lets the bag slip from his shoulder and land on a chair, then sinks into the chair next to it and Cas.

“I went to speak with Heaven.”

“Goddammit, Cas—"

“Dean. Please. Let me explain.”

Dean’s eyes finally land on Cas’, and they hold their gaze for a moment, as though trying to see who will break first. Dean sighs, and he rubs his eyes with both hands, his elbows digging into his thighs. Still hunched, he lets his hands dangle between his knees. Hesitantly, Cas reaches forward to the hunter's left hand. Dean doesn’t recoil, and so Cas gently pushes back the sleeve and turns the arm so the palm is up. His fingers work deftly to undo the bandage, and he addresses Dean’s wrist, rather than his eyes.

“I went to speak with Heaven,” he repeats, “because I wanted them to know where my loyalties lie.”

“Shit, Cas, you could’ve been killed. You know they don’t—" Dean’s voice is angry, but Cas can also hear the fear beneath it.

“I knew the risks,” Cas continues. “I took precautions.”

“So, what, that’s it, they forgive you for all the Lucifer crap and you’re gonna join the harps and halos?”

“You know the harps are just a myth and human invention, Dean,” Cas chides, partially to distract himself from the state of Dean’s wrist. It’s hardly the worst injury the hunter has ever had or that Cas has ever seen, but it gives him no pleasure to see the swollen and purple skin. “You are very lucky.”

“Just a sprain, Cas,” Dean defends, then huffs, “A frying pan. A goddamn _frying pan_.”

“It’s not just a sprain.” The skin is warm, too warm, under Cas’ fingers, and he sends cooling tendrils of Grace into the injury. Before, he could heal with a touch, but with no assistance from Heaven, he will have to do this more slowly. “It’s fractured. I suspect if you had used it more without bandaging it, you might have broken it.”

Dean grunts. “It’ll be fine. And you still haven’t answered my questions.”

Cas studies the faint blue-white light that dances on and into Dean’s skin from his fingertips. His other hand is cupping Dean’s wrist, holding it in place, and the thumb is rubbing small circles against Dean’s forearm. He hadn’t even realized until now.

“I told them I no longer want to return to Heaven,” he says quietly. “That I will stay on Earth, become a guardian of humanity, and will no longer interfere with the affairs of the Host. Not unless they interfere with, or try to harm, those I care for.”

He raises his gaze and finds Dean’s eyes wide.

“What did they say?”

Cas gives an ironic smile. “The usual. That I am turning my back on my family. But I disagree.”

“Well, you kinda _did_ —"

“No, I mean, I disagree about who my family is.”

Dean’s uninjured hand rubs the back of his neck, awkwardly, and then he gives a crooked grin. “Been trying to tell ya that.”

“I know.” Cas looks down and notices that the healing is complete. The wrist is smooth, the skin pale again. He expects Dean to pull his arm back, but he doesn’t, and Cas doesn’t let go. “Dean, I know it might not always seem like it, and I know my decisions may have made you think I didn’t care or that I didn’t want to stay, but even when I left, my motivation for doing so has been to protect you.”

“I get it. I’m not one to talk,” Dean confesses heavily. “Not like all of my decisions to save the world or my family have been stellar.”

“What was it you once called us? A couple of dumbasses?”

Dean's smile is sad. “Trusting. Less dumb, less ass.” He lets out a breath. “No more shitty decisions like that. At least, not alone. Make ‘em together, all right?”

“I hardly think that’s the best plan moving forward,” Cas deadpans. “But, together, yes.”

“Family,” Dean nods, then looks down at his arm, as though surprised to find it still between Cas’ hands. Noticing his gaze, Cas begins to withdraw. But, Dean catches his wrist. Clearing his throat, he says in a gruff whisper, “I dunno what I’m doing here, Cas. I just know...I just know I want you around.”

“As family.”

“Yeah, or...I dunno. More.” Dean looks at him with fear, as though just waiting for Cas to pull away in disgust. Instead, Cas takes Dean’s hand in his, and pulls himself closer on his chair.

“I’m here, Dean, until the end, however you’ll have me,” he confesses. “We’ll make it up as we go.”

The words hang in the air between them, a perfect bubble of hope and light.

Until it breaks.

“Hey, Mom and I are thinking about picking up Chinese food; what do you guys want?” Sam’s voice calls out from the hallway. As though electrocuted, the two of them separate just as Mary and Sam enter the library.

“Sonofabitch,” Dean mutters, shaking his head. “I dunno, the usual. Just order up a bunch.”

Castiel looks between Sam and Mary. “I do not require anything.”

“Right, yeah,” Sam agrees. He meets Castiel’s eye, and his expression, though subtle and fleeting, reminds Castiel of his earlier warning about hurting Dean by leaving and now includes a _You better not have fucked this up_. Cas returns a small half-smile he hopes allays the younger Winchester’s fears.

Mary looks between all of them; Cas finds her expression harder to decipher, yet she seems satisfied for now. He wonders just how much she suspects or knows.

“Did everything go all right for you, Cas?” she asks. There’s concern lacing her words, but Cas thinks it is not entirely for him.

“Yeah, where’d you go?” Sam adds.

“Yes,” Cas nods, then adds with a newfound sense of pride and belonging and cautious hope, “I told Heaven I have found my home. Here.”

Dean stands and pats Cas on the shoulder, his hand resting there as he speaks. “Yep, Cas gave those dicks the one finger salute and peaced the fuck out.”

“I did not do that, Dean—" Cas begins to protest as he, too, stands. But any further explanation is stopped by Sam’s shoulder colliding almost painfully against Cas’ mouth as the taller man gives him a hug and two hearty claps on the back before letting him go.

“Welcome home, man,” Sam tells him.

Behind Sam, Cas sees Dean, who gives him a soft smile, one that speaks of everything Cas has longed for but has never known how to find or accept.

And for the first time in a very long time, Cas finally feels like he belongs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And you were all worried about what shenanigans Cas was up to... :-P


	20. Memory Lane

Sam isn’t stupid. He knows _exactly_ what he interrupted after they got back from the shifter case three days ago. But after months of Lucifer walking around in Cas’ skin and having to watch Dean _pine_ —because that’s what it was, wasn’t it? (The side of Sam that Dean would probably call "nerdy" likes finally having a label for it)—and then watching Dean grow grumpier and grumpier all the way back from Minnesota, there was no way Sam was just going to let that situation blow up in their faces; he had wanted to make sure his brother was all right and not being dragged through the emotional ringer again. Besides, it’s not like Sam didn’t have his own beef with Cas just up and disappearing on some mystery mission, even if he’d taken it far less personally than Dean.

In any case, Sam’s just relieved that Cas seems to have finally accepted his place in the Bunker, and that the angel and his brother have started to work out of some of their shit. He thinks, at least. As far as he can tell, they’re just Dean and Cas, as per usual: same casual bickering, same awkward stares that Sam’s just learned to ignore over the years, same weird bond between them.

Although, if they think they’re fooling anyone about sleeping arrangements...

It doesn’t take an almost finished pre-law degree from Stanford to figure out this word problem:

_An angel cut off from Heaven needs to rest his Grace at night. Currently, there are six bedrooms suitable for habitation. Two, however, formerly belonged to friends who have since died, and so no one uses them out of respect. Three are used by members of the Winchester family: Sam, Dean, and Mary. One is the angel’s room, which has been left empty each night for unknown reasons. Sam and Mary can both attest to spending their nights alone (and, side note, Sam thinks he really needs to fix that for himself…). So, where does the angel sleep?_

Sam’s not entirely sure what Dean and Cas may or may not be up to, and he’s perfectly fine not knowing. He also knows that Dean being Dean, he won’t want to talk about whatever might or might not be happening with Cas, for a myriad of reasons, and Sam’s decided he’s spent way too much time thinking about his brother and the angel and he really needs to get a life...

Speaking of...

Sam’s phone buzzes on the table, and he automatically grins when he sees Eileen’s name pop up on the screen. Unfortunately, he remembers belatedly that he’d been complaining to Eileen about Dean and Cas being stupid and pretending nothing’s going on when it’s pretty obvious _something_ is going on, and so this message is probably not going to be the respite he needs.

> EILEEN: Bout time!
> 
> SAM: You knew???
> 
> EILEEN: Im deaf not blind
> 
> EILEEN: Whats ur excuse
> 
> SAM: Ha. Ha.
> 
> SAM: I dunno...Dean and Cas have always just been...Dean and Cas.
> 
> SAM: Never thought about it before.
> 
> EILEEN: Cmon...ur smarter than that
> 
> EILEEN: Dont tell me i gotta explain EVERYTHING to u ;)
> 
> SAM: Are we still talking about Dean and Cas?
> 
> SAM: Please tell me we’re not still talking about my BROTHER and his angel.
> 
> SAM: God that was weird to type.
> 
> EILEEN: Prob gonna get weirder
> 
> EILEEN: But no i wasnt talking about them anymore ;)
> 
> SAM: Good :)
> 
> SAM: You still out in Des Moines?
> 
> EILEEN: Yep cursed objs at estate sale...no biggie just taking awhile to track em all down
> 
> SAM: Need backup?
> 
> EILEEN: Should be ok. Know a couple ppl in area if things go bad
> 
> EILEEN: Might be swinging back to KS in a couple wks. See mildred maybe...
> 
> SAM: Or maybe you could come here?
> 
> SAM: No pressure or anything. I’m sure you’ve got places to go and everything...
> 
> EILEEN: Id like that :)
> 
> SAM: Yeah?
> 
> EILEEN: Yeah! Ill text u when im nearby
> 
> SAM: Can’t wait :)
> 
> SAM: Let me know if you need me, or us, up in Des Moines.
> 
> EILEEN: I will
> 
> SAM: Be safe.
> 
> EILEEN: U too

Sam replaces his phone on the table, then goes back to flipping through various tabs on his laptop, searching news sites for possible cases and just generally keeping up with what’s going on in the world. Honestly, after seeing some of the regular news stories of late, he’s starting to think that another supernatural Apocalypse is going to be overkill.

After a few minutes, he gets up and goes to the kitchen in search of a snack. He can hear laughter from the room, and he pauses inside the doorway just to watch the scene for a moment. His mom is rolling out what looks like a pie crust, but the aromas in the room don’t fit for a dessert. Dean is dicing actual _vegetables_ (carrots), and there are a few chicken breasts sitting on the counter. Chicken pot pie, Sam deduces. Mary and Dean have begun to share cooking duties, and Sam is just as happy to reap the results. Dean’s a decent cook, sure, but his repertoire pretty much consists of diner-type food or stuff that can be made in big batches (burgers, tacos with all the fixings, the chili recipe that Sam thinks came from Bobby, their dad’s “cure all kitchen sink stew", etc.); with Mary around, the variety has certainly improved. Last week, they had _salmon_ , and it was _awesome_ ; even Dean liked it _._

Sam snags a piece of carrot on the way by, earning himself a smack on the back of the head from Dean, which he ignores, and he grabs an apple from the fridge. Mary gives him a wicked smile on his way out the door before she flicks a tiny piece of dough at Dean. They silently laugh at the fact that Dean doesn’t even notice when it sticks to the back of his head, and Sam leaves them to their cooking. Plus, there’s a good chance that if he hangs around, when Dean _does_ discover his doughy hair accessory, he’ll blame Sam because there’s no way their dear sweet mother would _ever_ do that.

 

  
“Ngh,” Sam exhales articulately when something thuds into his chest and onto his lap. Looking down, he realizes it’s his duffel bag, mostly empty save for his Fed shoes, which he rarely bothers to unpack, and that Dean has dropped it on him before dropping himself into a chair opposite Sam in the library. “You could’ve just said we have a case, Dean.”

“Not a case.” Dean scratches the back of his neck. “You and Mom are going on a road trip.”

"...where?” Sam asks suspiciously.

“Anywhere you like.”

He gives his brother a look. “Oh god, you’re not trying to kick us out so you ‘n Cas—"

“What?” Dean sputters, and Sam is surprised to see actual hurt on his brother’s face, like that thought hadn’t occurred to him at all, and Sam feels a little bad for his assumption. “No, I just thought...shit, man, me ‘n Mom got four years together and you’re always out here looking for cases while me ‘n Mom are cooking or whatever, so I figured..." Reaching into his pocket, he digs out something familiar and silvery, and Sam’s eyes nearly bug out of his head. “Letcha take the Impala.”

Sam blinks, stunned. “Uh, wow. Th-thanks, Dean.”

“Yeah, yeah, you can take her to your nerdy museums or whatever it is you do,” Dean brushes it off before pointing an accusing finger at him. “And no shitty motels.”

“Dude, _you’re_ the one who always picks the tackiest motels,” Sam counters. “It’s like you’re obsessed with finding the most ridiculous one.”

“They’re cheapest,” Dean practically pouts. “Mom deserves better, though.”

“Yeah. Um, thanks, Dean. Really.”

“Just don’t fuck up my Baby.”

 

 

“Can I drive?” Mary asks when they reach the garage. Sam opens up the backseat door and tosses his duffel bag in. Despite being the one holding the keys, Sam realizes that he’d automatically gone to the passenger side of the car. Smiling, he looks over the top of the Impala at his mother, and tosses the keys to her.

“Sure.”

As soon as they’re buckled in, Sam has a moment of panic. He doesn’t have any clue what to do with his mom on this road trip Dean has decided they should go on. It’s not that he doesn’t want to do this, it’s just...he has no idea where to start.

Mary pulls up the benchseat an inch or two so she can reach the pedals. Luckily, she’s fairly tall for a woman at 5’8" or so, which means Sam still has some legroom. He smirks to himself as Mary adjusts the mirrors and starts up the ignition; she smiles at the rumble of the Impala’s engine.

“What’s so funny?” she asks when she catches Sam’s expression.

“Dean got shrunk to his fourteen year old body by a witch once. Nearly broke my kneecaps trying to reach the pedals.” That hadn’t been particularly funny, but the look on Dean’s face later when he realized he was about seven years from stepping into a bar again had been kind of hilarious.

Mary looks at him with an odd expression on her face, but there’s also a hint of faint amusement. She shakes her head in disbelief. “All right. So, where to?”

“I...I have no clue.”

“Hmm.” She chews the inside of her cheek in thought. Then, in a series of fluid motions, she shifts the car into drive, pulls out of Baby’s space, and steers her to the tunnel that will lead them out of the garage.

“Where’re we going?”

“East,” Mary replies vaguely once they reach the main road, and she turns on the radio, scrunching her nose up at the too-loud rock music from one of Dean’s stations. Sam reaches down to the footwell, finally finding Dean’s box of cassettes. He flips through them quickly, then pulls out one that’s been there since they were kids. It’s practically in mint condition from rarely being played.

There’s the slight scratchiness of an amateur recording for a second, but the first notes are unmistakable. Mary looks at Sam.

“Is this my tape?”

“Yeah. Dad had it. He’d play it sometimes if we were driving at night, usually if he thought we were asleep.”

“I remember making it. God, it was such a pain to try and line up the songs right..."

_Here come old flat top_  
_He come groovin’ up slowly_  
_He got joo joo eyeballs_  


Mary starts to sing with a clear voice at, “He one holy roller,” and Sam joins in on, “He got hair down to his knee.” By the time they’re belting out “Come together, right now, over me,” the Impala’s windows are open and they’re cruising down two lane blacktop. Looking over at his mom, one hand on the wheel, the other riding the currents of air out the window, Sam thinks that Dean was right: they need this.

 

 

It doesn’t take long for Sam to figure out where Mary is heading.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Mom?”

“Not really,” she confesses as she switches lanes to prepare to take the next exit. “But, I think...I think I have to.”

“Why?”

“It’s where it all started, isn’t it?” she answers softly. “And not everything in Lawrence was bad, Sammy. I’m sorry you never got to know that.”

The drive to the house once they’re off the highway is quiet, each of them lost in their own thoughts. Across the street from the house, Mary pulls over and kills the engine. She gets out and stands with her back to the car, hugging her arms. Sam gets out of the car a little more slowly and comes around to the front to stand next to her. Tears threaten to spill as she looks at the house. It’s sage green now, with off-white trim, and the path from the front door has been replaced with red-brown brick, but everything else looks mostly the same, down to the tree in the front yard whose branches shade one corner of the house and part of the driveway.

“Mom?”

She doesn’t answer, but continues to look at the house like she can see the ghosts of her old life there. And Sam knows that sometimes, those are the worst kinds of ghosts. No salt or flame can make them disappear.

A beat-up silver hatchback rolls into the driveway, and two people emerge: a teenage girl and a boy of about twelve or thirteen. The boy runs up to the side door, then seems to realize he’s locked out.

“Sari!” he calls out to the girl. The name makes Sam perk up, and he looks closely at the two siblings.

 _What was the boy’s name? Robby? Ricky?_ He smiles inwardly at the memory of the boy’s mom calling him a “juice junkie,” even if the kid’s name eludes him.

“Ritchie,” Mary says quietly, and Sam looks at her.

“You remember…?”

She nods as she watches Sari purposefully take her sweet time getting to the door and Ritchie’s growing impatience until the girl produces a key and lets them inside. They can’t hear the door click shut from where they are across the street, but it still seems to jolt Mary out of her contemplations, and she gets back into the car. Sam follows her lead.

They sit for a minute, silently, before Mary wipes a hand over each eye, then turns the ignition.

“You ok?” he asks.

“I think I will be.”

Mary drives them around Lawrence for an hour or so, pointing out landmarks here and there. The park they used to go to, where, apparently, Sam had been just as happy to be plunked down in the oversized sandbox with a toy truck or two while Dean ran around, climbing over the wooden structure—which has since been replaced by brightly colored metal and plastic—and pretending the place was his fort or castle. The garage where John worked, which Sam remembers from the last time they were here. The preschool Dean had been enrolled in, which also held a daycare, where Sam would have gone two or three days a week in the spring so that Mary could pick up a few hours of work at the local library. The diner the four of them used to go to early on Sunday mornings before the church crowds showed up, and where John and Mary had gone on more than a few dates in their day. 

It’s a bittersweet tour, but as they put Lawrence behind them in the early afternoon (neither of them wanting to stay the night in town), Sam is grateful for this chance to see part of his childhood, see where he fit into this part of their history and lives. The stories he’s heard from Dean and his dad had always featured Mary heavily, both of them trying to give him a piece of the mother he’d never really known. But he’d always felt like an outsider, having no place in the narrative. It’s not their fault, he knows: Dean and John had tried to make him a part of the story, and of course Dean was always quick to remind him of something dumb Sam had done as a kid _after_ their lives had changed irrevocably in 1983, but it wasn't the same. Now, though, Sam sees he may have only been in Lawrence for six months, may have only been a part of his mother’s life for six months, but in those six months, he’d been a part of an unbroken family, of a plan for the future, of a home.

Home.

Looking at the dashboard of the Impala, Sam thinks about how he’s always considered her his home, especially when all his other attempts to create something normal have failed.

After seeing Lawrence, after hearing Mary point out the pieces of their lives there, Sam thinks he understands why Dean has always clung so closely to the idea, has always tried so hard to keep them together.

Home is family.

 

  
They head west, Sam driving this time. In retrospect, it’s not the most efficient trip he’s ever been on, seeing as they have to more or less pass Lebanon as they continue on their journey, but he has an eventual destination in mind.

Around midnight, they reach Denver and manage to find a reasonably priced chain hotel with two single rooms, albeit on different floors. As Sam flops onto the king-sized bed, relishing the fact that his feet don’t hang off the edge for once, he thinks that he might fight Dean a little more for nicer digs when they travel in the future. 

As if on cue, Sam's phone goes off at that moment.

> DEAN: Me n cas r going on a case in NE 
> 
> SAM: Need us?
> 
> DEAN: Nah have fun w mom
> 
> DEAN: Tell her i say hi
> 
> SAM: I will. Everything ok with you two? Cas good to hunt?
> 
> DEAN: Dudes still an angel and he got ur sorry ass home
> 
> DEAN: Ya hes good to hunt
> 
> SAM: Just making sure. He's been through a lot. We've all been through a lot. 
> 
> DEAN: I know
> 
> DEAN: Were fine sammy
> 
> DEAN: And there better not b a scratch on baby when u get back...dont think i wont check
> 
> SAM: Dude. Chill. Mom and I do know how to drive, you know.
> 
> DEAN: Trust mom more than u
> 
> SAM: Jerk
> 
> DEAN: Bitch

There's something comforting about that being the last thing he reads before he falls asleep.

The next day, they decide to be tourists before continuing on their way.

“Did you seriously bring an EMF meter?” Mary whispers to him in the middle of their tour of the Molly Brown House, where a costumed guide is regaling them with Molly Brown’s experiences on the _Titanic_ , and how the actual events compare to Kathy Bates’ portrayal in the movie.

Sam shrugs, putting in an earbud. As ghetto as it looks, there are advantages to Dean’s homemade Walkman meter. “The place is supposed to be haunted. Can’t hurt to double check.”

Mary rolls her eyes in amusement.

But, the EMF doesn’t peak even a little, except when Sam gets near a window close to some power lines.

He’ll admit, he’s a little disappointed.

Before leaving Denver, they stop at a brewery and do that tour as well. They make sure they get Dean a t-shirt and a 6-pack of their IPA, knowing he’d never forgive them if they didn’t.

 

  
Bryce Canyon is almost indescribable in its beauty, and they’re lucky to hit it on a day that isn’t too hot. It’s still very warm, and they make sure they stock up on sunscreen and water, as well as appropriate hiking gear. He and Jess and a few friends had made the trip out to Yosemite during their junior year, but Bryce Canyon is completely different. The red-orange rocks practically glow in the sun, and it almost feels like they’re on another planet.

"Your father and I used to hike," Mary says as she pulls her ponytail tighter and wrestles with getting a piece of hair under her hat before settling on tucking it behind her ear. “There was a place outside Lawrence we’d go, this forest and lake. Not a hard trail, but it was pleasant.”

"You and Dad went hiking?" He smiles, still unable to completely picture John doing something like a leisurely hike for _fun_. For a hunt? Sure.

"Yeah. Hiking’s free, which is nice when you’re twenty." Mary grins crookedly. "We stayed too late once and it got dark. I think John was worried that _I’d_ be worried about finding our way back. ‘Course he didn’t know I’d been out there a few years before with my parents hunting a Black Dog."

"Which are most active at night," Sam supplies, earning a nod from his mother. He huffs a laugh. No matter how many times it crops up, the knowledge that _Mary_ was the one who knew what went bump in the night, not John, still amazes him.

He climbs up a steeply slanted rock, then crouches and reaches back to Mary. She takes his hand, and then clambers up the rock herself. The top of it is wide enough for both of them to stand, and from their position, they can look out at the park, see where the peaks and rocks and occasional green tree meet the azure sky.

Mary sits on the warm rock, and takes a deep swig from a water bottle. Sam joins her, each of them resting their arms loosely on top of their knees. The silence stretches before them, but it’s calm, reflective.

"I’m sorry I don’t know you very well, Sam," Mary confesses after a few moments, just when Sam is about ready to continue on. Instead of getting up, he turns to her, but her eyes are still focused on the horizon. "Well, I know you as a baby, but you’re a little bigger than that now."

"Just a little."

"You were a monkey sleeper," she adds, looking at him at last, laughter just bubbling under the surface of her voice. “I don’t know what made me think of that.”

"A what?"

"You _hated_ napping in your crib, but you’d fall asleep on me. I didn’t complain because at least you did nap, unlike Dean. I used to tell him he had to go and rest for at least a half hour—even if he just read books in bed—just so I could get a few minutes to myself."

"Dean’s not good at sitting still," Sam smirks.

Mary laughs. "No, I guess not. It was worse when you were born. He was always worried he was going to miss something with the new baby if he went to sleep. Thank _god_ he slept through the night, though. You, not so much."

"Sorry," he shrugs, and Mary pats his arm reassuringly.

"It’s ok. Anyway, monkey sleeper: you would start off in my arms, but eventually you’d scoot yourself down so you’d be draped over my leg, an arm and a leg on each side," Mary explains, holding out her arms and drooping her head down a little in demonstration. "Meant I couldn’t really go anywhere until you woke up. And that’s also the story of how I went through a minor _Days of Our Lives_ addiction."

“So _that’s_ where that came from,” Sam guffaws.

“What?”

Sam stands up, brushing himself off, then offers his hand again to Mary. “Well, besides Dean’s little obsession with shows like _Dr. Sexy_...he told you about the whole other universe thing, right? How other him was on a soap opera?”

“Yeah..."

“Did he tell you it was _Days of Our Lives?_ ”

Mary’s laughter echoes against the rocks, and Sam thinks it’s one of the best sounds he’s ever heard.

 

 

The motel outside Bryce Canyon is nowhere near as nice as the place they had in Denver, and they only get a single room with two queens. But, they’re so tired from their hike that they pretty much collapse onto their beds after a lukewarm shower each and couldn’t care less if the place hasn’t been renovated since eight-tracks were still a thing.

Mary takes the first shift of driving in the morning, and she knows by now to get on the highway going west. Sam hasn’t said anything about his final destination, and they’ve both been fine with just driving along and stopping when the mood strikes them as they go, but today Mary purses her lips before asking, “We’re going to California, aren’t we?”

Sam nods. Just like with Lawrence, sometimes you have to go back, if only so you can move forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry dear shippers, we'll return to our regularly scheduled Destiel soon. But Sam and Mary needed some time together.


	21. Two Steps Forward, One Step Back

Holding pattern.

That’s what this is: a holding pattern.

Dean can’t decide if he’s ok with that or if it’s driving him fucking nuts.

Ok, it’s driving him fucking nuts.

On the one hand, getting out of this holding pattern with Cas would mean actually _talking_ , and after their heart-to-heart in the library where he’s pretty sure they were about ten seconds from braiding each other’s hair until Sasquatch and Mom had showed up, Dean thinks he’s gotten his confessional quota in for the year. On the other hand, not explicitly saying what exactly it is they’re _doing_ , what this vague _more_ might mean, is making Dean want to crawl out of his skin.

He and Cas share a bed each night now, but all they do is sleep—or power down and reboot or whatever the hell Cas does. Since the day Cas healed his wrist, though, the gulf between them has been bridged. He’d been hesitant that night, moving closer to Cas under the covers, waiting for the angel to pull back and reestablish the code of personal space that Dean once tried to instill in him years ago (which never really took, if he’s being honest). Instead, Cas, who typically rests as stiffly as one of those hokey movie Draculas, had shifted to make room for Dean, had taken Dean’s arm and put it across his chest, had covered that arm with his own hand. By the time morning had come, their legs were tangled together—or at least, Dean had apparently thrown a leg over Cas' because, again, Cas sleeps or whatever like the frickin’ (un)dead—and Cas had been tracing small circles on Dean’s arm. Before, Cas had always left hours before Dean would wake, and so seeing and feeling him there, knowing that Cas had _stayed..._

Christ, he’s wanted that. Even Cas just saying he’ll stay on Earth, in the Bunker, with all of them, would have been enough for Dean. Or at least, enough to make do. (Probably. Maybe.)

Granted, there’s also a part of Dean that’s just waiting for the bottom to drop out, the other shoe to fall, because when does it ever _not_ in their lives?

And so: holding pattern.

The only other change over the past few days is the more casual touches between each other: a hand lingering on the shoulder, fingers lightly grazing a forearm, knees touching slightly under the kitchen table.

Oh and, of course, the knowing looks from Sammy, and the odd ones from his _mom_ , and shit, Dean has no intention of broaching _that_ topic anytime soon.

Bad enough when Sam practically accused Dean of trying to get him and Mom out of the Bunker so Dean and Cas could...

And wow, yeah, that had _not_  crossed Dean’s mind.

Well, it _had_ , but not as the motivation for getting Sammy and Mary to go on a road trip.

Dean isn’t _that_ skeevy.

And it’s not even that Cas is, for all intents and purposes, a dude. Not really. It’s been a long time coming, but Dean’s trying to be honest with himself: Cas isn’t the first guy to turn his head. And sure, it’s not like Dean is exactly ready to go public about _that_ , because yeah, that’s not gonna be a fun conversation for anyone involved. (Although, he’s a little surprised Charlie never dragged it out of him, but she came close...) He doesn’t even want to know what his mom would say about that, never mind the fact that even though she and Cas seem to have come to some kind of understanding, there’s no doubt that Mary’s still a little unsure about this whole grey area regarding non-humans.

(Maybe he should introduce her to Garth. He’s pretty damn harmless for a werewolf. And the guy kinda grows on you after awhile…)

No, what it comes down to is that it’s _Cas_. Not some random barfly hook up. Not even someone like Lisa, because he thinks that deep down they both knew they were living in a fantasy.

Cas is...Cas.

Plus, it’s not like Cas is exactly firing on all cylinders right now, and not just in terms of mojo. Dean saw how fucked up Sam was after his tour as Lucifer’s puppet and bunk buddy down in the Cage, and Cas was having a rough time _before_ signing up for what’s gotta be the worse co-pilot  _ever_. So yeah, Dean isn’t too keen on adding one more thing to the top of Cas’ shit pile, and that’s without even considering Dean’s baggage that goes along with it.

What a pair they are.

And so, tonight, they’re at a bar, and Dean is teaching Cas to play pool, and the guy is scary good at it because apparently geometry is about as difficult as walking and chewing gum to an angel, and years of fighting with a blade somehow translates to excellent hand-eye coordination with a billiard cue, and Dean’s managed to convince Cas to take off the trenchcoat and suit jacket and roll up the sleeves of his dress shirt so he doesn’t look completely out of place considering everyone else here is in pretty much the same flannel and jeans get-up as Dean, and he’s almost positive the bartender, Donnie, had read Dean like an open book when he’d ordered a couple beers for himself and his _friend_ , and he’s watching Cas line up a perfect shot on the eight ball...

...and Dean’s completely screwed.

Cas gives him a satisfied smirk when his shot is successful, and Dean’s not even a little upset that the angel has completely kicked his ass.

“Ok, next time, we’re gonna teach you to hustle pool,” he declares, feeling a little warm and maybe a little loopy, and he's pretty sure it ain't just the beers.

Cas gives him a look—that squinty, head-tilty one. “Isn’t that just winning at pool? I’ve already proven I can do that.”

“Nah, man, hustling pool takes _people_ skills and _acting_ ,” Dean grins, putting a hand on Cas’ back under the pretense of reaching past him to the table where his beer is. He doesn’t take his hand back. Cas doesn’t move away. And so it goes...

Cas frowns. “I’ve gotten better.”

“Yes, you have,” Dean nods. “Long way to go, though. But it’s all good: you’ll learn from a pro.” He gives Cas a wink and a smile, the one he usually gives when he’s trying be an obnoxious little shit and he knows it. It’s a gift.

Cas, of course, takes it like it’s his new life mission. “I look forward to that.”

“Right, yeah,” Dean offers awkwardly, suddenly all too aware of their proximity to each other and how _public_ this is (Dean’s been in his fair share of bar fights, but he’s not exactly looking for one tonight if some asshole decides to live up to every stereotype about guys in bars like this in areas of the country like this)...and _goddammit_ Cas deserves someone who isn’t a fucking trainwreck.

Three beers, a few rounds of pool, and one of darts later (again, angel = scary good), and Dean’s got enough of a buzz going to not even bother making a comment about Cas’ Pimpmobile of a car when they head back to the Bunker. Low on mojo as he may be, Cas is still an angel and angels need whole frickin’ liquor stores to get drunk, which means Cas drives, and Dean only grumbles a little.

He definitely _doesn’t_ grumble when they get back to their room— _when did it stop being “my room"?_ —and he gets his nightly fill of seeing Cas strip down to his undershirt and boxers because apparently that trenchcoat has been hiding a _lot_. And he also doesn’t grumble when they curl up next to each other, and even with a decent amount of alcohol in his system, Dean Fucking Winchester refuses to call it _cuddling._

Unfortunately, his brain is still a little alcohol and sleep addled when his phone goes off not long after, and fearing it’s Sam or his mom, he rolls over quickly and snatches it up, not even bothering to look at the screen.

“Sammy?” he practically barks into the phone, while Cas sits up and turns on the lamp by his side of the bed.

“Uh, no..." a female voice answers, sounding amused. Dean’s brain clunks into gear and he recognizes the voice just as she says, “It’s Claire.”

Swinging his legs out of bed and ignoring Cas’ questioning look, Dean’s already half-way to pulling on his jeans when he asks, “Where are you? What do you need? You ok?”

“Dude, calm down, I’m fine. I’m at Jody’s.”

Dean can practically _hear_ the eyeroll from the girl, but he still breathes out a sigh of relief. “Jesus Christ. It’s the middle of the night. I thought you were hurt or something.”

“Um, first of all, it’s only, like, 11:00, old man. Second, you can cool it with the worried dad vibes. I’m not dead in a ditch, and I’m not out past curfew. Because, you know, _not a kid._ ”

Dean has had way too much to drink for this conversation, and he briefly considers making inquiries about getting Jody canonized for sainthood. Cas, whose Vulcan hearing means he definitely knows who is on the other end of the line, is sitting wide-eyed in bed, looking almost fearful. But, one crisis at a time. “What’s going on, Claire?”

“Got a case, wanted some backup, but it’s in Nebraska and Jody’s got a weird thing about doing stuff outside her jurisdiction.”

“And this couldn’t wait until daylight?” Dean rubs his eyes.

“Not if we wanted to head out and do something about this _tomorrow_ ,” Claire counters. “But, hey, you got more important things than tracking down a ghost..."

“Jody give you the ok? Say this is a legit case?”

“She says she’s not sure but it’s worth looking into.”

“Great, send me the details, we’ll take care of it.”

“No, it’s _my_ case, Dean. I did the research, I want in.”

Again, not sober enough for this. “Fine. Me ‘n Cas’ll head out in the morning.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the phone, and Dean wishes he could rewind that last part. And thunk his head against something hard, but Cas would probably stop him, that bastard.

“Cas is coming?”

“Um, yeah. If you want. I can come alone—Sam’s gone for a few days.” He turns his back to the bed, not sure he can face Cas if she says to leave him behind in Kansas.

“No, it’s ok,” she asserts with reluctant resolve. “I want to see him. He’s ok, right?”

“Yeah, he’s good. Do you...do you want to talk to him?”

“No, I’ll see him tomorrow.” A beat. “I’ll text you the address.”

“Yeah. Sounds good. See you tomorrow.”

“Night.”

Dean disconnects the call and turns back to the bed. Cas’ face has adopted a mask of careful non-expression, but Dean can see guilt and concern and fear warring behind his eyes. He runs a hand through his hair, then looks at the angel apologetically.

“You ok with going on a hunt with Claire? I kinda signed you up without asking.”

Cas doesn’t answer immediately. “Does she even want me there? I...I abandoned her. Again.”

Shucking off his jeans once more, Dean climbs back into bed, leaning on his side and propping himself up on an elbow to face Cas, who lies on his back. “She’s pissed and hurt, Cas, I ain’t gonna lie to you. But you want to make things better? You gotta go and at least try.”

“There’s so much I need to fix, to make amends for,” Cas exhales. His eyes are fixed on the ceiling, as if it holds the answers. Dean flops back onto his own pillow, following Cas’ gaze to the grey concrete.

“One problem at a time, man. One problem at a time.”

 

 

While alcohol may have, for once, helped Dean keep a civil tongue in his head when it came to Cas’ car last night, the glaring sun of too-fucking-early-o’clock and the dull pound of a headache— _Christ, when did I get so old—_ mean that Dean has pretty much no filter right now.

"We gotta get you a real car,” he mutters from the passenger seat as Cas navigates through the streets of Lebanon like he’s a fucking granny out for a Sunday drive.  

"I _like_ my car,” Cas defends with that stubborn expression that pretty much tells Dean that nothing short of an act of...well, maybe not _God_ , specifically...is going to make Cas change his mind.

Dean reaches over to change the radio station from something other than some poppy Top 40 crap (ok, so it’s “Ex's & Oh's" by Elle King, but there’s no fucking way Dean’ll admit he knows that), and scowls when Cas bats his hand away.

“I’m the driver. I pick the music.” There’s more than a hint of challenge in Cas’ voice.

Dean should’ve known that would come back and bite him in the ass some day.

He settles into the corner between the seat and the door, leaning his head against the window. If nothing else, Dean figures he can catch a few more Zs before they get to Nebraska. It’s only a few hours to the lake and town they’re meeting Claire at, but that should be enough for him to get his game face on.

He’s just closing his eyes as Cas turns onto Route 4, when he suddenly finds himself pressed into the fake leather seats and in danger of getting whiplash. Cas, on an open road, apparently drives like a lead-footed demon.

“Jesus Christ, Cas, where the hell did you learn how to drive?!”

“You,” Cas deadpans.

Dean is totally blaming the alcohol for whatever made him decide last night that this would be a good idea.

 

 

The town is your typical Midwest small town, although this one has a few more shops and restaurants that look like they’re doing well, thanks to tourists and vacationers to nearby Swan Lake. Apparently this corner of Nebraska is a hot spot for vacation. Who knew.

They find a parking spot right by the curb outside the café they’d agreed to meet Claire at, and the teen is sitting at one of two outside tables with a plastic cup of something pink, frozen, and topped with whipped cream. She quirks an eyebrow at the car when Dean climbs out, and Dean returns a silent head-shake of _Don’t even get me started._

Cas comes around the car to join them, and Dean’s pretty sure he could cut the tension with a knife.

“Hello, Claire.” Cas’ voice sounds like it’s on the verge of breaking, and the angel’s shoulders are hunched.

“Hey, Castiel,” she greets, hesitantly.

Dean’s not sure if he should stick around to referee or if he should get outta Dodge while he can. Squaring his shoulders, he pulls out a chair at her table, and plunks himself down. “So, what’s the case?”

Cas is still hovering off to the side, and Claire rolls her eyes and nudges out a chair in his direction with her foot. He takes it but still looks like he’s going to bolt. “It’s good to see you, Claire.”

She gives him a half-smile and a quick once-over. “You ok from...wherever you were?”

His eyes flick to Dean, and Dean shrugs. _Your call_ , he tries to convey. It’s not his story to tell, and other than making sure Claire doesn’t flip out on Cas, Dean’s not really looking to get in the middle; Cas and Claire’s relationship is complicated enough.

“Yes. I’m back now. Permanently, I hope. I’m so sorry, Claire. I shouldn’t have—"

“Yeah, I know. Dean already gave me the whole ‘he did it to save the world’ speech,” Claire cuts him off. There’s bitterness in her words, but then she says, with more forgiveness, “I’m glad you’re back.”

Dean feels his posture relax when he sees the surprised gratitude in Cas’ eyes.

“Thank you,” Cas murmurs.

It’s a start. Dean knows the two of them have a _lot_ more crap to wade through, but he’ll take this over an angry, sulking teen and an angel who looks like a kicked puppy. His knee knocks gently against Cas’ under the table. From the corner of his eye, Dean can tell Cas seems grounded by the contact, and so he scoots his chair closer to the table and subtly to the left so that he’s just a little closer. Not enough for anything more than this, but then again, he’s not sure he wants to drop the...whatever this is...bomb on Claire. Kid’s got enough on her plate without dealing with the fact that the guy who is more or less wearing her dad’s body (oh yeah, and responsible for his death) is kinda sorta shacking up with someone, and that someone is _Dean._

Moving past that train of thought, Dean leans on his forearms, and decides to get back to business. “So, what’s the big to-do in the middle of nowhere Nebraska?”

Claire sits up straighter, pushes her frozen whatever to the side, and pulls a manila folder out of the messenger bag that’s tucked next to her on the chair. “Ok, so there’s rumors going around that the lake is haunted,” she says, flipping open the folder and pulling out a print-out of a news article.

It’s from a fringey news site, the kind that would probably publish stories about UFO sightings. The headline of the article reads: “MISSING GIRL AT SWAN LAKE: DROWNING OR RESTLESS SPIRIT?” Not the flashiest of headlines, but Dean supposes it gets the job done.

“Claire,” he starts, trying to frame this as gently as possible, “you know these sites aren’t always reliable. I mean, every now and then they catch something real, but—”

“I _know_ ,” she huffs. “That’s why I kept digging.” She pulls out some other articles, a few from more legitimate sources. “They call her the Lady of the Lake. She’s a girl in her late teens or early twenties, blonde hair, wearing a white dress, and she’s been showing up and disappearing on the lake for a few years.”

Dean frowns. “And that’s it? She just shows up?”  

“Not exactly.”

“Has she harmed anyone?” Cas asks, looking at a photo of the alleged spirit.

“Just scares the crap out of the dudebros she shows up to,” Claire explains.

“Kinda fits the profile of a Woman in White,” Dean suggests.

Claire shakes her head, then takes a sip from her drink. “That’s what I thought at first, but I don’t think so anymore.”

Dean’s a little bit proud and a little bit sad that Claire seems to have done her homework and knows all about Women in White. With care, Cas returns the picture to Claire’s case folder.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“Well, it’s always the same story: she walks up, barefoot, to some group of guys—usually guys vacationing at the lake—asks if they’ve seen her sister, they say no, she flips out and gets angry, then she walks into the lake and disappears. It’s always at night.”

“Her sister?” Dean asks, furrowing his brow. “Usually a Woman in White is pissed at the man who done her wrong.”

“Unless he was unfaithful with the sister,” Cas posits.

“Douche,” Claire adds. “But none of the guys have said she’s remotely interested in them, except for information.”

Dean leans back in his chair, thinking. “Drowning victim? Maybe her sister drowned, too?”

Claire shrugs. “Maybe. The articles only go back the last five years, but I couldn’t get access to any police records or anything, and I couldn’t find anything about an actual drowning that fits this. Got one hit about a possible drowning from a few years ago, but it was some twenty-three year old guy. And there was an old woman last year, but she had a heart-attack on a boat. She didn’t drown.”

“All right,” Dean says, getting up from the table. “If we want police records, I’m gonna have to change into my Fed suit. You got a motel or something scoped out?”

“The motel looked super sketch.” Claire wrinkles her nose. “Like, enter at own risk and beware of STDs on _everything_.”

“Great,” Dean grumbles, already missing the Bunker.

“So I booked one of the cabins by the lake,” Claire grins as she gathers her things and stands. “Plus, figured it’s closer to the scene of the crime and stuff.”

“That’s a good idea, Claire.” Cas has been rather quiet during the whole discussion, obviously preferring to let Claire take the lead, and so Dean’s relieved when Claire doesn’t balk at the praise.

“I thought so,” she agrees with good-natured cockiness.

They follow Claire’s car—a navy blue 90s Explorer that Jody picked up for cheap at a police auction, and which Dean gives begrudging approval to (“Even Claire has a better car than you, Cas,” he says, and then waits for the inevitable smiting glare; he isn’t disappointed)—and soon pull into the office parking lot for the cabin rentals.

At the desk, Claire gives the bored-looking clerk with a pretty impressive handlebar mustache her name for the registration. The clerk types it into a computer that looks about as old as the teen, then announces in a deep monotone, “You’re in Cabin 14, down the road ‘bout a half mile. Cash or credit card?”   

Claire turns to Dean, who is standing next to her and drumming his fingers absently on the counter, with an expectant expression. He glares back, then fishes out his wallet. “ _You_ made the reservation. Thought this was your shindig,” he mutters.

“I’m just a poor college student,” she says with mock wide-eyed innocence.

“Uh huh.”

Receipt signed and keys obtained, they head back to the parking lot where Cas is leaning against his car, looking remarkably relaxed with his feet crossed at the ankles and his hands in his coat pockets. Dean wasn’t surprised when Cas opted to wait while they went into the office: he seems to take every chance he can get to be outside; Dean wonders if it’s a reaction to being cooped up inside his own skin while Lucifer took the wheel, and he also wonders if that’s going to all come to a head at some point and if Cas is teetering on the edge of a breakdown cliff.

But, crossing that bridge when they come to it and all that...

Cabin 14 is just what you’d expect out of a cabin: small kitchen, small sitting area, two bedrooms, miniscule bathroom, what looks like a loft where you could probably set up a couple of cots if you needed the extra sleeping space, and minimal decoration except for the lime green and brown area rug under the coffee table that has seen better days and a few landscape paintings.

“This is pleasant,” Cas decides, looking out the large bay window in the living room, which gives a pretty good view of the lake. From here, they can see a small dock jutting out into the water, and there’s a narrow strip of sand that stretches along the edge of the lake. Several other cabins poke through the trees to their left and right, but each is set back enough that it feels private.

On the dock is a guy fishing, and suddenly, Dean longs for a barely-remembered dream of just such a place. A glance at Cas, and Dean knows he’s thinking the same.

“Cas, you sleeping these days?” Claire asks from behind them. They turn, vista momentarily forgotten, and Cas nods.

Of the two bedrooms, one has a double bed and one has two twins. Claire takes one look, then dumps her bag on the double bed.

“You two can take the kids’ room,” she smirks.

Dean’s about to fight her on that, seeing as he paid for the cabin, but then realizes he doesn’t really want to explain why it makes more sense for Claire to take one of the twins while he and Cas take the double, and so he just grunts out, “Fine,” and lets Claire have her moment of triumph.

Thankfully, Cas doesn’t do more than give Dean a quick questioning look, which Dean responds to with the briefest shake of his head. They’ll figure it out later.

“Give me five minutes and I’ll be ready to go,” Claire says.

“Go where?”

Claire gives Dean a look like he just took stupid pills. "To the police station...? You said you gotta change into a suit, so—"

“Whoa, whoa,” Dean shakes his head. “You’re not coming to the station.”

“Why not? It’s _my_ case, Dean, and I’ve been interning back in Sioux Falls—"

“Claire, hold on.” Dean puts up a placating hand. “I’m not kicking you off the case, but you called me in, and this how we’re gonna do it. No one’s going to believe you’re old enough for FBI, so—"

“But—"

“Claire.” Cas’ voice is calm, but still carries some authority. “Dean has more experience. It might be wise to take his suggestions.”

Claire scowls and crosses her arms, but doesn’t protest anymore. Dean gives Cas a silent, _Thanks_ , then continues with his plan. “I’m gonna go to the police station, see if I can dig up anything on strange deaths or missing people. You and Cas are going to check out the lake, see if anything looks suspicious. Play the tourist card.”

“Fine,” Claire agrees. Turning to Cas, she gives the angel a raised eyebrow. “You gonna wear the suit?”

Cas looks down at his coat. “I have no other clothing.”

“Not very vacationy.”

She’s got a point, and so Dean goes to his duffel and digs out a dark grey t-shirt and a pair of jeans, then tosses them to Cas. “Those’ll probably fit.”

“Aw, adorbs,” Claire teases.

Dean and Cas both ignore her.

 

 

The police station is small, but brightly lit and surprisingly well-staffed; Dean suspects that the influx of vacationers probably necessitates a larger force than a town this size would usually have.

He flashes his badge, introduces himself as Agent Ford (he’ll admit it: he’s still mourning the death of Han Solo), and asks for any records of strange deaths or missing persons of young women in the area.

“What’s the FBI want with that?” an officer about his age asks, after studying his badge carefully. She’s got dark brown hair that she’s pulled back into a no-nonsense French braid, big brown eyes, and even the rather shapeless uniform can’t hide the fact that she’s a knock-out in a girl-next-door kind of way. In other words, she’s pretty much Dean’s type, and he absently thinks that not that long ago, he would’ve been turning on the charm pretty hard. But, now, he just smiles as professionally as he can, and lies through his teeth.

“I’m tracking a missing persons case in another state. We think she was taken across state lines, so it’s federal.”

“And you think she ended up here?” The officer peers at him.

“Just covering all the bases and following up any leads,” he assures her, and then, channeling Sam’s puppy-dog eyed sincerity the best he can, adds, “I just really want to be able to bring her family some closure.”

Jackpot.

The officer gives a grim smile of sympathetic understanding. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Great, thank you.”

The records are still mostly in hardcopies, the officer explains apologetically, but Dean’s able to search and pull a few that seem likely. It’s slow going, but at least Claire had said the Lady of the Lake appearances have only been going on for a few years, which helps him focus his search. From Claire’s case file, he pulls the grainy photo of the supposed ghost as a comparison, but nothing pops.

Rubbing his eyes, he tries to think of a different angle, if the mystery woman isn’t hitting paydirt. A thought occurs to him, and he goes back to the records, pulling two others. The first he dismisses after flipping through it quickly—a car accident that happened about four miles from the lake, and only one victim. But the second one...

Checking to see if anyone’s watching, he goes to the copier, runs the whole file through, returns all the records, and heads out with a brief word of thanks to the officer who’d gotten him set up before returning to her desk.

He’s still not entirely sure how this all fits together, but maybe Cas and Claire will have found something.

And maybe, he hopes, as he slides into the driver’s seat of the Pimpmobile (which he had parked down the street from the station so he wouldn’t have to explain his odd choice of ride for an FBI agent, should anyone ask), Cas and Claire have found some way to reconnect.

Otherwise, the next couple days, or however long this hunt takes, are gonna be rough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, we're back to multiple storylines all at the same time. I hope people are still willing to go along with me for it. :)
> 
> Oh and bartender Donnie is the same bartender from 10x17.
> 
> Lastly, if you haven't seen [the Dean Winchester version of Ex's and Oh's](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XhquAU3zR-w), you are seriously missing out.
> 
> Next chapter will probably be up this weekend sometime!


	22. Family Feud

_Look, I ain’t saying you gotta forgive him right away, but...don’t cut him out, all right?_

Dean’s words back in Jody’s living room repeat in Claire’s head as they walk down from the cabin to the edge of the lake. But it’s so damn hard, especially with Cas wearing that grey t-shirt that’s just a little loose in the shoulders and the jeans that are just a little too long and that he keeps pulling at at his thigh as though he finds the fabric constricting. Because he just looks so...human.

But he’s not.

And he’s not her dad.

Even if he’s kind of dressed like him. Not her dad who went to work and wore a suit every day, but her dad who took her to soccer practice and who would proudly wear a tiara when she insisted on a princess tea party and who would hum in the kitchen when he made pancakes on Saturday mornings.

Then again, as strange as it is, Castiel doesn’t look like her dad. Not really. He walks differently, he moves differently, his voice is nothing like her dad’s (and she hates that she doesn’t really remember what her dad sounded like, but she knows that Castiel’s is somehow much deeper and rougher). He’s like if her dad had had a weird twin that nobody ever talked about.

But more to the point, he left. Again. She’d pretty much given up on him ever giving a damn again, back when she was getting shunted around from foster home to foster home to group home. And then he’d waltzed back in, out of guilt, she knows, and wanted to be a part of her life.

It had taken _a lot_ for her to open up, even just a little.

She’d clung to him after Randy’s house.

After her mom died.

Before she’d gone off to Jody’s.

He’d called her and texted her, and she kind of regrets (but not really) introducing him to cat memes because apparently angels are giant dorks who think that pictures of grumpy furballs with dumb crap written on them are pretty much on par with Scripture.

And then he’d stopped.

She’d tried praying again, but no response.

She’d texted a few times, but no response.

So she’d figured that Castiel had gotten past his guilt-ridden conscience, and she was back on her own. She never told Dean or Sam that she’d tried calling Castiel about that vampire case, didn’t want to admit that she’d tried and that Castiel obviously didn’t care and of course _she_ doesn’t care, why would she? He’s just a stupid angel.

_But he’s back now and maybe we can make sure the dumb bastard doesn’t pull shit like that again._

Claire snorts to herself. _Easier said than done, Dean,_ she thinks. Sighing, she looks back to Castiel, who is peering out at the water like he can see much further than the horizon. Hell, he’s an angel, he probably _can._

“See anything?”

“No,” Castiel shakes his head. “And I don’t sense any spirits or souls.”

Kicking a rock down the path, Claire asks, “You can do that?”

“Sometimes. Angels are very attuned to the energy of souls, especially ones that are...loud.”

She raises a brow. “How can a soul be loud?”

Castiel stops walking, and looks to the treeline to their right. “It’s difficult to explain. 'Loud' is not a perfect analogy, but...sometimes if a soul is restless or angry, like a ghost, it is easier to detect. Other souls..." He looks to her, sadly. “Your soul is louder to me.”

Claire doesn’t know what to say to that, so she marches a little more quickly down to the water. She stops when her feet hit sand, and turns back to Castiel. “Because of my dad or because I could..."

“Both. Neither.” Castiel shrugs. “The souls of those I am close to are loud, regardless of vessel suitability, although it may have started that way.”

“Like Dean and Sam’s?”

“Yes,” Castiel replies, but he looks decidedly uncomfortable at the topic. “I am very familiar with their souls.”

“I bet you are..." she mutters. She’s not jealous. She’s _not_. Except Castiel _always_ goes back to the Winchesters. She’s just an afterthought.

Crossing her arms, Claire looks out over the lake and the land around it. It’s a pretty ordinary lake, as far as she can tell. A few docks, some small boats, a couple of brightly colored kayaks, a few people fishing, a family splashing in the shallows, a group of college students lounging in chairs. There’s the faint smell of smoke and meat from a grill, and the happy shrieks of children playing. Just beyond the dock closest to the cabin, Claire catches a flash of white swimming out to deeper waters.

 _Guess that’s why it’s called Swan Lake_ , she muses, watching the bird.

“Claire,” Castiel says, breaking her reverie. He looks utterly defeated, and Claire can’t help but feel a little bad for the guy. “I feel...I feel I should apologize. And explain.”

“Is it going to make me feel better to know where you were? Why you left again?” She doesn’t mean to sound so sharp, but the words come out before she can stop them.

His shoulders fall. “Most likely, no.”

Instead of responding right away, Claire goes to the dock, her footsteps echoing on the warped boards. When she reaches the end, she toes off her shoes and sits to hang her feet off the edge. A moment later, Castiel is standing by her side.

“Do I _always_ have to tell you to sit?” she chides, thinking of the café earlier.

Taking the invite for what it is, Castiel joins her, his shoes next to hers, and the too-long jeans rolled up slightly to mid-calf. Not that it really matters: unless there’s a sudden tidal wave, they’re probably not in danger of getting wet. Her toes just barely graze the top of the water, but Cas’ feet submerge to the ankles.

“I missed it—nature—when I was...away.” Castiel’s face is tilted up towards the sun, his eyes squinting against the glare.

“Where were you, Cas?” she asks softly.

“I was here,” he says, dropping his gaze to face her and tapping his temple.

“Soooo, you went nuts? That was your big ‘save the world’ plan?”

“No,” he sighs heavily. “We were fighting the Darkness. Amara. God’s sister.”

“God has a sister?!”

“Yes. My Father locked her away so he could create all of this. But she was set free, and we had to stop her.”

Claire suspects there’s more to the carefully-worded story, but she doesn’t press the matter; she's not sure how much she wants to know. Sure, she wants to be a hunter, but even she'll admit that sounds way out of her league.

“How do you even stop God’s _sister_?”

“That was the ‘sixty-four dollar question.’” He doesn’t do the air quotes, but Claire can hear them anyway. “She had been defeated once before by God and the archangels. We thought—hoped—that we could enlist the help of at least one of the archangels. But only two were left alive: Michael and Lucifer.”

It’s been awhile since Claire’s been to Sunday school, but she knows her Bible pretty well. She knows that Michael is _the_ archangel, the strongest and most powerful. “So, what’s Michael been doing all this time?”

“He’s been in Hell, locked away with Lucifer. That was the result of their failed Apocalypse.”

It’s funny, after all this time, Claire’s never gotten the whole story of what went down with the Apocalypse, never heard exactly how or why Castiel needed her father’s body. Maybe she should ask someday.

“So you busted him out?”

“No. Michael is apparently...unwell.” Castiel’s jaw tightens. “Lucifer tried to convince Sam to agree to be his vessel, but Sam said no. I...I did not.”

Claire leans back, away from Castiel, in shock. “You did _what?_ ”

“He assured me he would help defeat Amara. And he did assist; he did not lie about that.”

“What the _hell_ , Cas?!” Claire’s practically shouting and she couldn’t give a damn if her voice carries over the water. “You let...you let _Satan_ take over you...my dad...you..."

“He’s gone now. Amara cast him out,” he says in a near whisper. “Claire, I am so sorry. I didn’t think... I just wanted to be useful.”

 _But, what he did,_ Dean had said, _why he was away—he made a tough call and a hard decision, and I’m not saying it was the right one, but he did it to help._

Claire takes a deep breath, trying to calm her rage at the broken angel next to her, and instead pictures punching Dean in the arm for not _telling_ her. But she also remembers one of Jody’s pieces of advice: think about it from the other person’s point of view instead of just getting wrapped up in your own shit. She's never been good at it, but maybe Jody's onto something.

Castiel isn’t stupid, she knows that. And he’s not as callous and ruthless as he used to be, back when she was just a kid who didn’t understand what all this was. He isn’t evil, even if she’s pissed as hell at him. He wouldn’t just let _Lucifer_ out into the world for kicks. He must have really thought that it would be the best option.

_He did it to help._

_I just wanted to be useful._

And shit, does she understand that. All those crap cases that she convinced herself were real because she couldn’t stand the idea of being cooped up in suburbia when there were monsters in the world hurting people.

She blinks back tears, refusing to let him see her wipe them away. “Did he...did he do anything to you?”

Castiel shakes his head. “His Grace nearly burned through my body, and I was mostly locked in my own head, but that was more my own doing than his. He just...encouraged it. But no, he didn’t do much to _me_ personally.”

“To others?”

He pauses. “I stopped him from harming Sam. He tried to manipulate and undermine Dean. He killed several angels. He treated the King of Hell like a slave. He was...Lucifer. My Father forgave him, and that was that.”

Listening to the intense bitterness in his voice at that last statement, Claire wryly thinks that maybe her own daddy issues are pretty mild in comparison. Hers don't involve  _God_.

“But he’s gone now?”

“I believe so. I hope so.”

“And you’re back...for good?” She tries not to let the hope creep into her voice; she doesn’t think she’s successful.

“Yes. I told Heaven I would be staying on Earth and would no longer involve myself in their affairs, even if they do reopen the gates.” He looks down at his hands, folded neatly in his lap, then back up to her. “I hope... I would very much like to keep in touch, Claire, to know how you are doing, to make sure you are well. If you would let me.”

She rolls her eyes, but it’s mostly to keep the tears from falling. “Yeah. Sure. Doof.” Not waiting for his reaction, she gets up and grabs her shoes. “C’mon. We got a case to solve.”

 

 

Their survey of the lake and the beach areas don’t reveal anything out of the ordinary. The latest sighting happened not far from their own cabin, but the place looks like any old cabin. It’s pretty much a clone of theirs, except that there are a few lawn chairs on the grassy slope leading down to the sand and a big blue cooler on top of a picnic table.

Castiel is crouched by the water’s edge, inspecting every freaking rock or whatever, but Claire doesn’t really see the point.

“Anything?” she calls out.

He looks up from his inspection of what looks like a feather or something, and shakes his head. “No, but..."

Trailing off, he nods at something over Claire’s shoulder. She turns and sees a guy about her age being a total creeper in the bushes. Castiel stands up, and she recognizes that stance: he’s about half a second from hulking out celestial style. The guy in the bushes notices them, his face flushes red, and he puts up his hands.

“It’s not what it looks like!” One hand is holding a small camera. He also looks like he’s about to shit himself, so Claire gives Castiel a silent look of _Stand down, I got this._

 _Are you sure?_ he wordlessly asks back, and Claire waves him off.

“So, what is it, if it’s not what it looks like?” she asks as she approaches him.

“I’m not stalking you and your dad,” he stammers, his golden brown eyes darting between Claire and Cas. She doesn’t bother to correct him; explaining that he’s not her dad would probably raise more questions. “I live in town and I’m kind of a ghost story buff and I know it’s stupid but..."

“Dude, calm down.” She bites her lip, trying to go for more friendly and normal and totally not a hunter of supernatural stuff. “So, ghost story?”

He smiles, a little dorkily, and Claire can admit, he’s kinda cute in a wiry way (and definitely not a threat; she thinks she could take him, no sweat, if it came down to it). “Yeah, I’m guessing you’re not from around here, huh?”

“Nope,” she replies truthfully, then rolls her eyes and jabs a thumb back in Castiel’s direction. “Vacation. Forced family fun.”

“Your dad always look that angry?” the guy says, trying for casual and missing by a mile.

“You know dads. I can’t walk within ten feet of a guy without him looking like he’s gonna pull out a shotgun,” she jokes.

(Meanwhile, in reality, it's more like super-surrogate-mom-Jody would force another birds and the bees talk from hell, shove a bunch of condoms in her hands, then make sure she knows how to throw a decent right hook and knee a guy in the groin, just in case, because Jody's kinda horrifically awkward and awesome like that.) 

"...he wouldn’t, would he?” he laughs, nervously.

“He better not.” Claire looks behind her and shoots a glare in Castiel’s general direction. _I’m fine. Go away._ Luckily, the angel seems to take the hint and relaxes, then goes back to his inspection of the lake. “I’m Claire.”

“AJ.”

“And you’re just hanging around with cameras totally not being a creeper because of a ghost story?” she teases, laying it on a little thick, but whatever. All part of the job, right?

He huffs a somewhat self-conscious laugh. “Yeah. The lake’s supposed to be haunted. They call her the Lady of the Lake, and last week there was another sighting. I’ve been trying to get a shot of her.” He shrugs, gesturing to the camera. “They’re the kind that bird watchers and stuff use. Got two more set up over there.”

AJ points to two spots a little ways away on either side of the cabin, each with a good view of the lake.

“Lady of the Lake?” Claire asks.

“Yeah, these guys always say she disappears into the lake after asking for her sister. I didn’t believe it at first, but one of my older brother’s friends says he saw her last year.” He scratches the back of his head. “You probably think it’s really stupid.”

“No, I think it’s cool.” AJ looks at her doubtfully, so she asks, “Your brother’s friend saw her? What’d she look like?”

“Our age, maybe.” A beat. “Um, how old are you?”

“Nineteen.”

He breathes out a sigh of relief. “Twenty. Anyway, Ty said she was blonde, was wearing this wispy, feathery dress or something. He said it was weird: she looked solid, not like a ghost at all.”

“So how do you know she wasn’t just some crazy chick?”

AJ frowns. “I’ve known Ty my whole life. He’s like my other older brother. He wouldn’t lie. Never seen him so freaked out like that.”

So far, it lines up with everything she’s heard so far. She reaches into a pocket where she’d shoved a tiny notebook and a pen, and then gestures for his hand. She quickly scribbles a string of numbers on the inside of his palm. “That’s my number. If, you know, you see anything.”

“Yeah..." AJ grins, a little stunned. Inwardly, she shakes her head. Boys are dumb. But, hey, this might actually be useful.

“There you guys are,” a deep voice calls out, and Claire spins to find Dean, still in his suit, striding up to them, folder in hand. The hunter pauses and gives Claire and AJ a look; beside her, AJ visibly quails. If Claire didn’t know that Dean can be a giant dork who sucks at mini golf (she's never letting him live down that she beat him by a stroke), she’d probably be intimidated, too. (And yeah, ok, she’s also seen him in action and knows you do _not_ fuck with him. Or either of the Winchesters, really.) Castiel, however, pulls Dean aside, presumably to discuss whatever it is that Dean found out at the police station out of earshot from a civilian.

“So, is _he_ the dad who pulls out the shotgun?” AJ tries to kid.

Claire opens her mouth to protest that no, she doesn’t have two dads, but she thinks about how it might be fun to watch Dean shit a brick over that cover story. So, she raises her voice just enough so it carries over to Castiel and Dean, and says, “Yeah, my dads are _super_ lame and won’t leave me alone.”

She’s pretty sure that Dean’s neck nearly breaks from whipping it in her direction that fast. Cas’ eyes are bugged out, and she’s a little surprised by that; honestly, she’d figured he’d be awkward but ultimately indifferent to the whole situation. Smirking, she ends her little charade with a wink at AJ. “Give me a call, ghostbuster.”

“Yeah, uh, ok!” he says to her back as she rejoins Dean and Castiel.

 

 

They’re walking up the steps to their cabin when Dean remarks sardonically, “I like it: you give me shit about not wanting you on the case, then you’re getting all doe-eyed with string bean over there.”

Claire gives him a death glare. “I was working the case.”

Dean nods with mock seriousness. “So that’s what the kids are calling it these days.”

She fights to keep her eyes from finding the ceiling. “His name is AJ and he was setting up cameras to get photos of the Lady of the Lake. I gave him my number so he could call me. _About the case._ ”

“Has he been successful getting pictures?” Castiel asks from the rickety wooden table in the kitchen. Ever the practical angel.

“Not yet. And even if he does get a shot, he probably won’t call because he thinks my two dads are gonna kill him,” she shoots back deviously.

There’s an awkward silence.

Not the reaction she was expecting.

Dean’s eyes flick to Cas and back and suddenly something clicks in Claire’s brain.

“Oh my _god_ , I was _kidding_ ,” she exclaims. “You two are... _Jesus Christ._ ”

“Claire—" Cas says at the same time Dean mutters, “Shit.”

But Claire can’t even deal with this oh-so awesome revelation, and so she just goes into the bedroom and closes the door, and she does not slam it because she’s a goddamn _adult_ , no matter what they think. Hugging her arms close to her chest, she paces the room. There isn’t much space to do so, just a narrow path between the door and the window since the bed occupies the majority of the room.

Honestly, she’s not even sure why she’s bothered by this. It’s not because they’re two guys—hello, it’s 2016, not the Dark Ages. And it’s not even really about the fact that Castiel looks like her dad, because, yeah, that’s more than a little weird, but she’s mostly learned to mentally separate the two of them. And it’s not even that Castiel is an angel and Dean’s a human, even if it does sound like a tragic YA romance novel in the making. ( _At least Cas isn’t a vampire_ , she thinks absently.)

And really, it actually kind of makes _sense_ , when she looks back at how they’ve always defended each other to her, tried to make her like and accept the other...

A cautious knock on the door makes her pause her pacing.

“Claire?” Dean’s voice is surprisingly soft in its gruffness.

She opens up the door. Castiel is standing awkwardly behind Dean, and Claire realizes what it is about this that frustrates her. Maybe it’s petty, but just for _once_ she’d like to come first. But no, Castiel chose Dean. Not that she wants Castiel like _that_ , because, ew, gross, but just for _once_ she’d like to be _someone’s_ priority. Sure, she has Jody, but in her heart of hearts she knows that even though Jody loves her, the sheriff and Alex will always be closer (and Claire knows she hasn’t done herself any favors on that front: she knows she’s shut Jody out until recently).

“You could’ve said something,” she mumbles, then looks back at the room. “Guess you’d rather have this room, huh.”

“To be honest, we haven’t said anything...to anyone,” Dean admits uncomfortably. “We...uh..." He breathes out. “Shit, Claire. I’m sorry. You got enough going on.”

Cas steps forward, then glances at Dean. “If you would prefer that we didn’t—"

Dean looks at him, wide-eyed, and Claire can’t tell if he’s about to protest or clam up and never say anything again until the day he dies. She sighs, recognizing Cas’ offer for what it is, and how stoic he’s trying to be about it. “No, it’s fine. It’s just. I dunno why I’m surprised. You always do this, Cas.” Castiel’s brow furrows in confusion, as does Dean’s. She waves a vague hand between them. “Not this, not...you two,” she huffs. “Just..."

She doesn’t know how to explain it without sounding like a whiny kid. So, instead, she grabs her duffel bag, walks to the adjacent bedroom, tosses it onto the floor by the nightstand between the two beds, and goes back into the living room.

Dean and Cas are still on guard, and she notices there’s an awkward space of distance between them. She feels a little guilty about that.

“Congrats, or whatever,” she says. And then, because she can’t take this discussion anymore, she goes to the kitchen counter where Dean had deposited the case folder, and asks, “So, we gonna catch a ghost or what?”

The mood in the cabin shifts immediately as Dean and Cas slip back into hunter roles, clearly more comfortable with this than the screwed up family conversation they’d been having. And yeah, Claire’s really not ready to process all of that right now. She wants something to salt and burn, something concrete to do.

There’s still some tension as they settle around the table, but Dean takes the folder from Claire’s hand gently and flips it open; she sees there are a lot more papers in there than when she started.

“Ok, so I couldn’t find anything on weird deaths or missing people fitting our ghost girl or this mysterious sister of hers,” he says. “But then I started thinking about the rest of the story. She always confronts young guys, right?”

“Yeah..." Claire drawls, still not sure where this is going.

“Right, so I started looking at anything involving guys that age.”

He slides a piece of paper out to her, and Claire recognizes the picture and name from her research: Devon Hollister, 23, presumed dead by drowning in 2011.

“What’s he got to do with anything?” Claire frowns.

“Well, there’s more in his file than what ended up in the papers,” Dean explains. “He was apparently last seen going out on his boat with a girl that nobody had ever seen before. They tried tracking her down, but no one had a name, just a description: early twenties, blonde hair.”

“The Lady of the Lake?” Castiel asks.

Dean nods. “Could be. At least one witness says the only other time she saw this girl, she was with another one. They looked like sisters. They were by the lake, both wearing white dresses. Witness said it she thought it was weird because they looked like they were going to go swimming, despite their clothes, and when she looked back after a minute or so, they were gone.”

“I don’t get it,” Claire says, holding up the report and the picture of Devon. “If she was the last one with him when he supposedly drowned, how come there’s no record of _her_ drowning? And what about the sister?”

“I don’t get it all either,” Dean shrugs. “But, they’re not even sure this guy _did_ drown. His boat was tied up at the dock, and they dragged the lake. Never found a body. I mean, it’s a big place, though, so his body could still be out there.”

“So, shouldn’t we be seeing _his_ ghost, then?” Claire counters.

Castiel leans forward in his chair, sifting through the papers on the table. “We might not be dealing with a spirit at all. There are several water-based creatures that could live in that lake. Perhaps one of them is our Lady, or Ladies, of the Lake. They might have lured Devon to his death.”

“What, like a siren?”

Dean shifts in his chair uncomfortably. “Not a siren. Those are nasty motherfuckers, but doesn’t fit their M.O.”

“I feel like we're missing something obvious,” Castiel muses.

Dean runs a hand over his eyes. “Research, I guess. Figure out what we’re up against.”

Claire groans mildly. She’d hoped this would just be an easy case: figure out who the dead person is, find their bones, salt ‘em and burn ‘em. The end. “Awesome.”

“Welcome to hunting,” Dean deadpans. “All right, I’m gonna get out of the monkey suit, head to town and pick up a pizza or something, then we can hit the lore.”

“I’ll come with you,” Claire offers.

Dean and Cas exchange a look, and Claire tries to ignore the look of hurt on Castiel’s face.

“Uh, sure,” Dean nods.

A few minutes later, they’re both in Castiel’s car, and Claire can’t help but comment, “I can’t believe Cas still has this thing.”

“He _likes_ it, apparently,” Dean commiserates. He’s got his left arm propped up on the window sill and his head resting against the knuckles as if he’s trying to hide his face from anyone who might see him driving the beige beast.

“We could’ve taken my car,” she reminds him. Dean looks at her like the thought never occurred to him that she could drive him places, and she tries not to get annoyed about how they still think of her as a _kid_. The car bounces over the dirt road away from the cabins while they sit in silence. Finally, she says, “I’m not mad about you and Cas.”

“Uh,” Dean eloquently states. “Yeah...um...look, Claire—"

“It’s not about _you_ or whatever,” she tries again. “Cas told me about the whole thing with Lucifer, and, yeah, I’m not happy about that because _what the hell_ , and he told me how he gave Heaven his two weeks notice and is going to stay on Earth and I just thought..." She looks out the window. “Never mind. It’s stupid.”

“Whatever it is, it’s not stupid.” Dean steers the car onto the main road, and the ride is instantly smoother and quieter. “You’re pissed he didn’t come back for you,” he says after a moment. “Not until now, even when he’s been back for awhile. With m—us.”

“Yeah.” She shrinks back into the seat, feeling very small.

“Look, I can’t read Cas’ mind, but I know he _wanted_ to see you,” Dean offers, looking over at her. “But he wasn’t sure you’d want to see him. Guy’s a tough sonofabitch, but honestly, I think you scare the crap out of him sometimes.”

She raises an eyebrow. “I scare _him_?”

“Dude, all I’m saying is that Jody deserves a fucking medal for taking in you and Alex and doing it at as well as she does. And Cas’ people skills are rusty at best. So yeah, a teenage girl who may hate him for very good reasons and yet he worries about and cares about? Terrifying.” Dean gives her a half-smile. “Plus, I’ve seen you take out an angel and a vamp. Gotta agree with Cas on this.”

Even though she knows he’s just trying to cheer her up, she finds herself biting back a smile and trying to hide it with a scowl. “Yeah, sure.”

Through the windshield, Claire spies the red and white sign for Vito’s House of Pizza, and Dean pulls the car over to the curb. He shuts off the engine, but doesn’t get out of the car.

“You sure you’re gonna be ok with this? All of this?” he asks.

“Maybe. I dunno.”

He nods, accepting her response as is, and Claire’s thankful for that.

She’s less thankful when they get into an argument about pizza toppings, even when the guy at the register says they can do half and half (“Ugh, but you can still taste the pineapple on _everything_ ,” Dean argues when she suggests Hawaiian for her side; they settle on just getting sausage and pepperoni for the whole thing).

Back in the car, fifteen minutes later, Claire rests the pizza on her lap, glad that she’s wearing pants, not shorts, because the bottom of the box is still very hot.

“I know he’s trying,” she says as Dean turns the ignition. He turns to her, not judgmentally, and she continues, “It might just take time, you know?”

“Yeah, I know.”

And she really thinks he might.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is almost twice as long as my next longest fic...I knew this was going to be a beast when I started it, but I don't think I realized just how much I had rattling around in my brain and scribbled in my notebook. And I still have a lot to go. Thanks to everyone who's sticking around. :)
> 
> And don't hate me, I know Claire and Cas aren't in a great place right now...


	23. Ghosts of Regret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never been to Stanford, so my pretty vague descriptions are entirely based on a quick Google image search. *shrug* Sorry for those of you who love those details! If the Winchesters ever make it out to MA, don't worry, there'll be descriptions and details galore.
> 
> Also, Stanford in real life doesn't have a pre-law degree. It does in the SPN universe, though, because I say so (and so do 2x07 and 7x04).

Time. They say time heals all wounds, but they always seem to forget about the scars.

As they pull onto the Stanford campus, Sam’s shoulders tense up, his knuckles whiten on the wheel, and Mary fears those scars have left more of a mark than her son has let on.

She remembers with perfect clarity the night her parents died, the night she made a demon deal to save John.

She can’t imagine what her son must have felt when he lost Jessica and couldn’t bring her back.

How John must have felt when he lost _her_.

And, in the end, that was all her fault, wasn’t it?

By a row of red-roofed buildings and a large quad, Sam pulls over the Impala. The campus is fairly empty, with students mostly gone until the fall, but a few walk or bike by every now and again. Sam looks out the window and his jaw clenches.

“Sam?”

“Yeah, Mom?” he asks, turning to her.

“We don’t have to—"

He shakes his head. “No, I’m fine. It’s just..." He looks back to the quad, at the few people sprawled on the grass, enjoying the bright summer day, and Mary can picture her son there, with a girl (she wishes she knew what Jessica looked like), lying on the grass, backpacks and books momentarily forgotten between classes.

“What if we start smaller?” she suggests.

He frowns. “What do you mean?”

“How about...why Stanford?”

The topic seems to do the trick as he swings the car back out onto the road and steers it in the direction of a lot with visitor parking.

“Stanford was a way out,” he says. “And kind of a ‘screw you’ to Dad.” He looks at her, apologetically, but she makes no comment. She knows her sons’ relationship with their father is difficult and fraught with tension and regret, on both sides, and she knows that Sam and John were always more contentious towards each other. “It wasn’t just that I was going to college, but I was going to a really good one. Show him I could make something of myself, do something completely different. I mean, I could’ve done a state school, probably would’ve if I hadn’t gotten a free ride, but Stanford..." He pauses, one hand on the door handle to get out, now that the car is parked. “Stanford, the people here...it was everything hunting wasn't.”

She nods, understanding, but not wanting to interrupt. Their walk brings them outside a cluster of dormitories, and Sam pauses at one of them. He points to the third story, the left corner.

“You can’t see it, but my freshman room was on the back of the building up there.” He gives a half-smile. “My first roommate, this guy named Ryland, he couldn’t believe how small our room was, had no idea what to do with all his stuff. I was just excited to have drawers and a desk and a small closet to _myself_. Something permanent. My stuff didn’t even fill two whole drawers.”

Her heart sinks, thinking of all the toys and clothes and books she and John had lovingly put in Sam’s nursery, some new, some passed down from Dean. All of that, gone.

“Ryland was an ok guy, though. Little asshole-ish, but not bad.” Sam laughs. “Don’t tell Dean this—he thinks I lived in the library and never had fun—but let’s just say Ryland was glad I was his roommate when the guys on our floor all started a prank war. Lifetime of living with Dean? I had plenty of practice. We destroyed ‘em.”

“How’d you win?” Mary asks with an amused grin.

Sam shakes his head. “That’s not a story you tell your mom.”

Mary frowns, but then again, she’s not _that_ far removed (kind of) from that age group, so she can only imagine what a group of eighteen-year-old boys would have gotten up to, left to their own devices, and she decides she’s actually happier not knowing.

They keep walking around the campus, Sam stopping now and again to point out a landmark from his days there: the dining hall that had a pretty good Taco Tuesday (but those Wednesdays were sometimes a little rough), the lecture hall where he took a really awesome poli-sci course that almost made him change majors, the library where Sam staked out a hidden study carrel on the second floor when he was studying for the LSAT...

At one building, they stop for a little longer. Sam looks almost wistful, and says, “Lot of my pre-law classes were there. If I’d gone to law school, I pretty much would’ve lived here.”

“Why law?” Mary asks, genuinely curious.

Sam shrugs. “Prove I could. Be something respectable. I liked the challenge. And I know lawyers get a bad rap, but some do a lot of good. Help out people who are innocent, or deserve justice.” A beat. “It was either that or be a cop or something, but after growing up hunting..."

“Too similar?”

He nods. “Wouldn’t have fit me, especially back then. Dean would’ve been better at something like that, which is kinda funny if you think about it.”

Mary can see that, even after only knowing the boys as adults for a few weeks. Dean may balk at authority on principle, but really only if it’s authority he thinks is incompetent (it was clear he has the utmost respect for Donna and Jody, for instance). And Dean is far more hands on—sure, he’ll hit the books, and she knows he does it well, but he’d much rather be in the field _doing_ something.

Sam can do that, too, but her younger son is more cerebral. He actually seems to take pleasure in the research, and she can see him thinking of law and school like a puzzle, something just waiting to be solved, something Sam would revel in unraveling.

They stroll around the campus for another hour or so, and Mary is relieved that Sam seems to be actually enjoying the experience, reminiscing about this time or that. There’s sadness and grief behind his eyes, but only as a shadow. At a sandwich shop just off campus, they stop for lunch; Sam claims they have the best pastrami and swiss paninis, and Mary is certainly not disappointed when she gets hers.

Heading back to the car, Mary wonders if they’ll now go to the apartment Sam and Jess shared. Instead, however, Sam steers the Impala away from campus and heads north. About a half hour later, they’re pulling off the highway into San Mateo, and eventually turning down busy roads Sam seems familiar with. Neither speak, but Mary has a guess as to where they’re going.

The cemetery is open and beautifully kept, with wide paths between the meandering, but orderly, rows of headstones. When Sam stops the car and gets out, Mary hesitates, unsure if her presence is wanted or if this is something Sam wishes to do alone. But, he looks back to her, inviting her with a sad smile.

The headstone is simple. Pinkish brown stone. JESSICA LEE MOORE. Beloved Daughter. January 24th, 1984 - November 2nd, 2005. A small picture of a beautiful blonde girl is inset at the top. Mary’s heart breaks. By the base is a bouquet of fresh flowers, brilliant in their pinks and oranges.

“She didn’t like roses,” Sam says. His words are thick. “Should’ve brought something, though. Maybe lilies. She liked lilies.”

“We can come back with some,” Mary offers.

He doesn’t answer. Mary studies her son, so tall, so strong, so still. Where Dean wears his heart on his sleeve, no matter how much he tries to deny it or hide it, Sam is still. Contained. Restrained.

But still waters run deep, as the saying goes, and she wonders just how much her youngest keeps locked away.

Tentatively, she loops a hand around his elbow and leans into him.

“She’s lovely, Sam.”

“Yeah. You, uh, you would’ve liked her.”

They’re quiet again, except for the bright chirping of two birds in a nearby tree.

“Do you want a minute?” she asks, softly, releasing his arm. Sam looks down, and she can see the longing for a moment alone and the guilt of asking her to go warring on his brow. She raises a hand to his cheek, brushing a lock of hair away. “I’ll be at the car. Take as long as you need.”

He nods, silently, gratefully, and Mary walks back to the Impala. In truth, she needs some time to herself as well. She bites her bottom lip and fights back tears.

_It’s all your fault. It’s all your fault. You could have done something. You could have protected them._

The words are a constant tattoo in her skull, the chorus and refrain of her second life.

Taking a deep breath while clenching and unclenching her hands, she steadies herself, and turns back to face the graveyard.

She can’t make out the words, but Sam’s voice drifts to her. Before long, he kisses the tips of his fingers, then lets them rest softly on the headstone.

As he walks back, it’s as if the years are stripped away, and all Mary can see is her little boy again. She gathers him in her arms, rising to her tiptoes to reach his shoulders. He folds into her, holding her tightly, and she closes her eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Sammy,” she whispers.

“It’s ok, Mom,” he sniffles, pulling away after a long moment.

Seeing her son cry nearly does her in, but she swallows the emotion back. With a nod, they get into the car, each of them seeming to find some small comfort in the rumble of the familiar engine.

It’s Sam who breaks the silence first on the way back east, away from Stanford and the memories there.

“I always thought,” he says slowly, “or I thought for a really long time, what if I told her, you know? What if she knew the truth? That maybe things would’ve been different.”

“And now?”

He sighs. “I don’t think it would’ve mattered. Hell, she probably would’ve just insisted on coming with us, when Dean came to get me to find Dad. But they would’ve gotten to her, eventually.”

She knows why he’s telling her this, but it’s not the same; he's not responsible for what happened to Jess. And she’s his _mother_ , and he’s her _son_ , and yet her children seem to do more taking care of _her_ than the other way around _._ She remembers that first night back, in Jody’s house, where Dean had told her it was his job to take care of people. Even Castiel had tried to reassure her that all of this wasn’t her fault.

“I could have warded your room. You were just a baby, Sammy.”

“Mom—"

“I could have told that demon ‘no,’” she says, but she wonders if she really could have, John’s head in her lap, his neck broken, and those yellow eyes leering at her from her father’s face... “I knew _better_ than that. But I did _nothing._  And because of it..."

“You did it to save Dad,” Sam counters, then gives a bitter smirk. “It’s kind of a family tradition, at this point.”

“But a _demon_ , Sam? I—” She can barely look at him, shame choking her words.

There’s an awful silence that stretches for too many miles.

“Trust me, Mom, there are worse things you can do with a demon.”

She turns to him, at last, and Sam’s eyes are fixed on the road ahead. He doesn’t even seem to realize for awhile that it has started to rain, the clouds having rolled in steadily as they drove, before blinking and belatedly turning on the wipers when the windshield is nearly too streaked and blurry to see.

She wants to ask, but she’s afraid. When she’d asked Dean, he’d become angry, the pain and guilt of an impossibly hard life spilling over until he had broken. And so this time, she waits instead.

“We’ve all done things, done things we can’t take back, even if we want to,” Sam says. “But, we gotta just keep going. Do better next time.” Another silence, but this one is a little less bleak. “It took me a long time to accept it, that this was my life. And I know you’re mad at yourself or Dad or whatever for getting us into hunting but...I’m ok with it. Now. This is what I want to do.”

“You never thought you’d go back? To Stanford, or something else?”

“I did. A lot. Tried a couple times. But if someone gave me the option, right now, to walk away, I would turn them down. This is my place.”

_This is my place._

“Are you happy, Sam?”

He thinks about it before answering. “Content, I think. I have my family. I’ve made peace with my past, more or less.”

“And the future?”

“Guess we’ll see.” He shrugs.

_This is my place._

_This is my place._

Sam’s words carry with her, replaying over and over with the same rhythm of the tires on the road.

 _What is_ _my_ _place?_

She doesn’t know. Everything in this world is so different from what she left behind, and not just because you can fit a whole library in the palm of your hand or because the U.S.S.R. is apparently no longer a thing or because milk is $3 a gallon. But because her husband is gone—and yet she remembers him, remembers Heaven, she was ripped away, but she can’t dwell on that, can’t think about that—and her boys are grown and living the life she never wanted for them and, despite it all, have come to accept that, have learned to embrace that. They know their place in the world. They connect to each other in a way that is born of a hard and insular life, of pain and trust and love.

Where does she fit in?  

What does she _want_?

_What is my place?_

She longs for an answer, but none comes.

 

 

They stop at a random motel in Nevada that night; on the way out west, Mary had suggested they swing south and go to Las Vegas—she’s never been, and while she’s not a gambler, she’d be interested in just seeing the place—but Sam had shaken his head, said something about “a bad experience" there, and Mary had let the matter rest. And so, they’ve taken the far less scenic route back home.

The motel is clean and well-maintained, even if it is old. The grey-haired woman at the desk smiles at them from behind thick glasses, and her husband comes out from the back room to welcome them and tells them to let him know if there’s anything unsatisfactory about their rooms. They thank the couple, and take the keys, both of them giving strained smiles, too emotionally wrung out to offer much more.

Outside their doors, Sam gives her another hug, this one far lighter, but no less meaningful, than the one by Jess’ grave.

“I’m glad you’re back, Mom. Thank you for doing this with me.”

“Thank you, Sammy.” She squeezes him tight.

“Good night.”

“I love you.” 

An odd smile flashes on his face, and he replies, “I love you, too.”

 

 

They take the rest of the journey back to Lebanon as leisurely as they did the drive out. It’s a 24-hour drive, more or less, from the coast to Kansas, but they spread it over two and a half days. Rather than settle for fast food at rest-stops, they turn off the highways into the small towns wherever they can.

The first day after California, they try an Indian food place—even though neither of them are sure this part of Nevada is really known for its Indian cuisine. But, the food is excellent, and Mary and Sam reflect that it’s definitely not a place they would have gone to if Dean or John had been there.

Outside a small bookstore in Utah, Sam stops so suddenly that Mary almost walks into him. They’d decided to stretch their legs by taking a stroll down the town’s Main Street, just taking in the shops and enjoying the warm air.

The window display looks pretty ordinary, from what Mary can see: a stack of best sellers with glossy posters of the authors or blown-up versions of the book covers, a sign announcing a free storytelling session for children by a local writer. She scans the display, wondering what could have caught Sam’s eye, fairly confident that the one advertising “This year’s hottest romance!" is probably not what has drawn his attention. Instead, she follows his gaze in a surprising direction: the poster about the storyteller for children. In a bright blue box are the cheery words, “Stories told in sign language, too!” Sam pauses at the window for only a second or two, and doesn’t say anything about it, but Mary files the knowledge away for later.

That evening, she joins Sam in his room before bed, but instead of watching TV like usual, she brings the laptop Sam had given her—his old one, apparently, which he had kept as a back-up when he upgraded. He’d apologized it wasn’t as fast as the newer models, until Mary had reminded him that in 1983, computer screens were pretty much just black backgrounds with green letters and they required floppy disks to do anything useful.

Dean’s brief tutorial of laptops and the Internet had been a little overwhelming at first, but she’d gotten the hang of the basics pretty quickly, even if the technology still amazes her. (She also secretly has a cheat-sheet notebook where she's been writing down a myriad of tips and tricks and how-to's to navigate the computer and the Internet.) She hasn’t had much time to use it on this trip, but after dinner, she’d poked around online (apparently, it’s called “surfing the web"), and she wants to share what she’s found with Sam.

He looks at her questioningly when he sees the laptop, and his eyes go wide when she sees the video she has pulled up. It’s a free series of videos on ASL.

“I thought we could learn together,” she says.

Sam looks dumbfounded for a minute, before grinning shyly. “I, uh, I’ve been practicing. I took a couple classes in college, but I only remembered a little. The videos really help.”

Her face falls. “You already knew about them?”

“No, Mom, this is great, really. It’s kinda awkward practicing on your own. I thought about asking Cas to teach me since he knows how to sign, but..."

"...he’s been a little preoccupied lately?”

Sam gives her a little smirk. “Something like that.”

They put the laptop down on the small desk in the corner of the room. Sam takes the chair, Mary takes a corner of the bed.

“I don’t know any sign language,” Mary confesses. “I’ll probably be terrible at it.”

Chuckling, Sam replies, “Can’t be any worse than me. First time I met Eileen, I tried to say ‘thank you.’” He does the sign as well, fingers touching just below the lips before moving out. “Kinda messed up.”

“What did you do?” she asks, feeling a grin creep over her face. Sam signs again, this time with his fingers grazing below his chin; similar, but not quite the same. Mary lets out a loud laugh. “Even I know _that_ sign!”

“Trust me, I know the difference now.”

“And she still talks to you?” she teases.

“For some reason,” he says with a self-deprecating shrug. Something more serious flashes over his face for the briefest of seconds, though, and Mary frowns.

“Everything ok, Sam?”

“Yeah.” But, he draws himself in in a way that makes Mary suspicious.

“Is this about Jess?” she asks gently. Since California, Sam has been quiet at times, although the farther they move east, the less tense he has become.

“A little,” Sam admits. “Not because of finding someone else—I know Jess would want me to be happy. It’s just...these things never go well with me. Because of me.”

“You worry about Eileen? Something bad happening to her, because of you?”

Sam doesn’t answer, but stares down at his hands, clasped between his knees. Mary scoots forward, putting her hands on his forearms, ducking her head a little to force herself into his line of sight.

“Sammy,” she says, “Eileen’s a smart girl, a tough girl. She knows how to take care of herself. And you’re always going to worry about what happens to the people you care about. That’s what caring about someone _means_. But you can't hide yourself away because you’re afraid something bad is going to happen. Because good things, really good things, can happen, too, but you have to let them." He looks up and meets her gaze, hesitant hope in his hazel eyes. "I think Eileen could be one of those really good things for you, and I think you could be one for her.”

Sam breaks eye contact, swallows. “Thanks, Mom.” He takes a breath, then looks back to the laptop screen. “So, uh, where do you want to start?”

Sitting back on the bed, she shrugs. “You’re the expert.”

He huffs a small laugh, then, seemingly more confident, swings the computer towards him so he can reach the keyboard better. “I think I have an idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, I don't think we really consider just how deeply Sam feels. I mean, for someone who is known as the brother who is willing to talk about feelings, have you ever noticed it's more that he's better at getting OTHER people to talk about THEIR feelings, rather than his? There's just so much we don't know about Sam. He's like an iceberg. I hope I did him justice.
> 
> And Mary...Jesus. The Winchesters do NOT have an easy time, do they?
> 
> (Also, a note on the sign language: when Sam messed up the thank you sign, he basically told Eileen "eff you".)


	24. Wild Goose Chase

“I don’t even know where to look anymore,” Claire complains, pushing back her laptop and thunking her head on the table. She lifts her head back up. “Aren’t you guys supposed to be experts, know everything? Cas, you’re like a bagillion years old, you gotta know _something_.”

“And yet you are always quick to remind me how little I know or ‘get,’” Castiel answers dryly, feeling hopeful when Claire does not seem to take offense at his reply.

“You know nothing, Jon Snow,” Dean mutters with a barely there self-satisfied smirk.

Claire’s eyes twinkle deviously. “You tell ‘em, Ygritte.”

Castiel recognizes the _Game of Thrones_ reference, but doesn’t engage any further in the banter, still not entirely sure how far he is allowed to go when it comes to Claire. In truth, he’s a little envious of Dean, the way he seems to so effortlessly connect with the teen, even though Castiel remembers a time when she could barely stand to be in the same room with the hunter. At least, ever since the two returned with pizza, Claire has seemed more welcoming of Castiel’s presence; she had even made a joke, asking if they should have picked up some angel food cake for him if he didn’t want pizza. He knows his sense of humor is awkward, by human standards (much celestial humor simply doesn’t translate well to human terms, and vice-versa, but he _does_ have a sense of humor, despite what they may think), but even he had understood the wordplay and friendly tone of Claire’s remarks.

“I keep coming back to sirens and stuff,” Claire explains. “But you already said they don’t fit.”

“Yeah, the traditional myth is kinda wrong.” Dean runs a hand through his hair. “They convince people to kill their loved ones so that they can be with the siren.”

“Ew.”

“You have no idea.”

“Even if the traditional mythology held,” Castiel adds, “the report said Devon Hollister’s boat was docked and unharmed. Hardly similar to the Greek tales of sailors dashing their ships against the rocks to reach the sirens.”

“All right, what else we got?” Dean holds up a hand and begins ticking off fingers. “Probably not a kelpie—no record of a horse or anything like that, no hoof-beats, no nothing. Could be a naiad, but never heard of one outside of Greece, but who knows these days—we had arachnes a few years ago..."

Closing the book he had been studying, Castiel leans back in his chair. “A water elemental, like a sprite, might fit, except that all accounts seem to indicate that this Lady of the Lake is corporeal.”

“I’ve seen a few pretty solid-looking spirits,” Dean counters, though not in any real objection. “But yeah, I don’t think it’s a spirit or sprite.”

“Selkie?” Claire suggests, but even she looks doubtful. “But maybe like a freshwater animal, instead of a seal?”

“What, like a beaver or something?” Dean frowns, then reaches over to the pizza box and takes one of the three remaining slices. “I dunno, maybe,” he concedes around a mouthful of food.

“Attractive,” Claire deadpans.

Dean just gives her a sarcastic grin before continuing to chew. Mouth free of food, he asks, “Are selkies known for killing people, though?”

“No, it’s all love story crap,” Claire grumbles, pushing her laptop towards Dean and Castiel. Dean only gives the screen a cursory look, ostensibly trusting Claire’s judgment. Castiel, however, looks a little more thoroughly, even if he is familiar with selkie mythology. It’s been many, many years since he has encountered one.

“Did you know that seals—real seals—were the basis of much mermaid mythology?” he asks. Dean and Claire shake their heads. “The story goes that sailors out at sea for long periods of time would start to envision the seals as women, or mermaids.”

“There’s a Navy SEALs joke somewhere in there,” Dean smirks. “Wait, so are mermaids real?”

“I do not believe so.”

“Huh,” Dean remarks, thoughtful. “We came across a zanna that was a mermaid last year.”

Claire pauses in fixing her loose braid of hair. “What’s a zanna?”

Dean smiles to himself, and Cas wonders what he is thinking. “Kind of like an imaginary friend. They’re good people...creatures.” He looks back to Cas. “So no for real Ariels?”

“No,” Cas answers. “I’m also fairly certain there are no half-octopus sea-witches out there, either.”

Claire gives him an odd look. “Did you just get a Disney reference?”

“Oh yeah, Cas is very pop culture savvy these days,” Dean says, clapping Cas on the shoulder, then letting his hand linger there for perhaps a second too long to be considered purely casual.

But Castiel is more interested in the expression on the girl’s face, and he wonders if he has somehow overstepped some boundary with his reference to _The Little Mermaid_. But, before he can ask—and he’s not even sure the question would be well-received—Claire is sliding the laptop back to face her, and is peering at the screen with deep concentration.

“You know what? I’m calling it a night,” she declares, and shuts the laptop.

Dean nods. “Fresh eyes. We’ll keep looking in the morning.” Getting up, he takes the pizza box and puts it in the old, avocado green fridge that hums steadily in the corner of the kitchen. “Hey, Claire, you hear anything from string bean?”

“AJ,” Claire scowls.

“Yeah, him. No pics of our woman in white who isn’t?”

Claire checks her phone; the screen flashes briefly before turning off again. “No. I told you, you guys probably glared him away. And he could’ve been helpful.”

“We apologize, Claire,” Castiel offers, even if he’s not entirely sure Dean would agree, hoping it might go a little way towards mending their relationship.

“Yeah,” Claire says, in apparent reluctant acceptance, although the look she gives Cas is far kinder than the one she gives Dean in this instance; he decides to consider this a victory, however minor. “All right, I’m out. G’night.”

“Sleep well,” Cas tells her, standing up himself, while Dean simply grunts a “Night.”

The teen retreats to the bedroom with the two twins in it, closing the door quietly behind her. Dean leans back against a counter, rubbing his face with one hand, the other arm crossing his chest.

“How you doing, Cas?”

“Better than expected,” he admits, glancing at the closed bedroom door. “I feel I’m always on the verge of saying something that will upset her.”

Dean nods, but doesn’t reply right away. He pushes himself away from the counter and heads to the larger bedroom, silently inviting Cas along with a hand on his back. Cas shuts the door while Dean sits on the edge of the bed and starts untying his boots.

“She says she just needs time, man,” Dean says at last, his socked feet planted on the wooden floor and his boots tossed against the wall.

“Time,” Cas repeats. Crossing the room, he also begins his preparations for bed, also starting with his shoes.

“Yeah. I think it’ll be ok, though. She knows you’re trying.”

“I am,” he asserts, wounded.

Dean holds up a hand. “I get it, I do, I know. I’m not saying you’re not. I think...I think that’s all she really wants. Someone to try. Put her first.”

Cas frowns. “Is she not cared for at Sheriff Mills’?”

“Dude, no, Jody’s awesome. But, Jody and Alex have had the family thing going for awhile, so I think Claire kinda feels left out sometimes. And then you come back, but you go to m—us, so..."

“Oh.” Shame and guilt pool in his stomach as everything becomes painfully clear to him. “I was...afraid she wouldn't want to see me again.”

Dean stands up, and continues undressing. He comes closer to Cas to toss his socks and jeans into the duffel bag, retrieved earlier from the next room, which lies by the door where Cas still stands. “That’s what I told her. I think she gets it now.”

Cas puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder, meeting his eyes with his own. “Thank you, Dean.”

“No problem, man,” he tries to deflect. His eyes flick down over Cas, and he gives a somewhat cocky-half grin. “Like the new get-up, Cas.”

Looking down, he picks absently at the loaned grey t-shirt. “They are comfortable, once you get used to them.”

“I could get used to them,” Dean replies, although there’s a self-consciousness to his words that puzzles Cas. Clearing his throat and scratching the back of his neck, Dean retreats to the bed, and Castiel can’t help but feel a moment was lost or missed.

 

 

Loud knocking and calls of “Dean! Cas!” rouse him from his rest, and he and Dean both spring up from the bed at the sound of Claire’s voice. Being closer to the door, Cas is the one who opens it, finding the teen holding her phone up to her ear.

“It’s AJ,” she hisses. “He says he saw her!”

Once in the living room, Dean immediately holds his hand out to the phone, from which Castiel can hear the boy’s voice babbling in near-hysterics. But, Claire holds up a finger, signaling him to wait.

“AJ, AJ, calm down, I’m putting you on speaker.”

As soon as she presses the appropriate button, AJ’s voice bursts into the air. “I saw her! She was real and I think I got a picture and—"

“AJ,” Dean cuts in, his tone firm.

The babbling instantly stops. "...sir?”

“Where are you?”

“Uh, by the water at the other cabin. I’m so sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to—"

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. “Calm down, kid. We just want to know you’re ok.”

“Oh,” AJ says, sounding relieved.

“Head towards Cabin 14; we’ll meet in the middle.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Stop calling me ‘sir.’” And before the boy can respond, Dean stalks back into the bedroom to pull on his jeans and boots.

Mere minutes later, the three of them are clothed, albeit somewhat haphazardly—Claire, for instance, simply shoves the laces of her sneakers inside instead of tying them, the collar of Dean’s overshirt is crooked, and it takes Castiel a minute to realize that one of his jeans pockets is inside out—and are hurrying down along the water’s edge towards the cabin. AJ jogs up to them, out of breath, his mousy brown hair plastered to his forehead. The camera from before is back again in his hand, and he’s clutching it to him as if afraid it’ll be stolen.

“AJ? You ok?” Claire asks.

He nods, his eyes flicking between the three of them. “You told them?”

“Yeah,” she confirms. “Don’t worry, they’ll believe you.”

AJ looks unsure, but Castiel steps forward, trying to adopt the same tone he has heard the brothers use when questioning a witness. “Can you tell us what happened?”

Squaring his shoulders and taking a deep breath, AJ answers, “I was just checking on the cameras, you know? Make sure they weren’t messed with or anything, and she just comes up behind me. I could hear her walking, like a twig snapped and that’s how I knew she was there, and I turned around and she was _there._ ”

“And then?” Dean prompts. “Did she say anything, do anything?”

“She looked angry, and...and sad.” In the dim glow from a nearby cabin light, Castiel can see that AJ looks bemused at this revelation, now that he has had a chance to consider it. “She asked me ‘Where’s my sister? Where did you take her?’ and I told her I didn’t know and she asked again, and she grabbed me and shook me and pushed me down, and by the time I got back up, she was gone.”

“She touched you?” Claire asks. She looks to Dean and Castiel in question, but they have no answers for her. Dean, however, reaches into his pocket and draws out a blocky black device.

“Um, what the hell is that?” AJ stammers.

“EMF meter.” Dean frowns down at it, then looks to Cas. “Mine’s cooler, but Sam’s got it in the car.” Cas simply allows one corner of his mouth quirk up in amusement. Dean turns back to the boy. “Won’t hurt you, but it should go off if you came in contact with a spirit.”

“Who _are_ you guys?” 

“People who deal with this stuff all the time,” Claire answers. “It’s ok. Dean knows what he’s doing.”

Not that Dean really gives AJ a chance to protest, and he holds the meter up to the boy. But the meter stays silent.

“Guess we were right: not a ghost,” Dean confirms, repocketing the device.

“AJ, what else can you tell us about her?” Castiel asks. He nods towards the camera. “Did you capture anything?”

Shakily, AJ nods, and hands the camera over. Castiel takes it and finds a video, with no sound, of the girl’s approach to the boy and their altercation, just as he described. She moves out of the frame after pushing AJ to the ground. The video is blurry at times, the whiteness of her dress and her shockingly blonde hair stark against the dark landscape.

Claire peers into the distance, in the direction of the scene of the crime. “Any of the other cameras capture anything?”

“No,” AJ says regretfully.

“All right, show us where,” Dean commands.

AJ leads them down by the water, almost to the exact spot where Castiel had been investigating earlier. The ground and area looks much the same as before, and even Dean looks resigned to the futility of their search. Something flutters in the edge of Castiel’s vision, and he looks down. A single white feather, not unlike the one he found before. Crouching, he picks it up and studies it.

“Find something, Cas?” Claire’s shoes are soft on the sand.

“Perhaps,” Castiel replies. Rising, he turns to AJ, beckoning him to give him the camera. The boy hands it over, and Castiel navigates to the video again. He paused it after a few seconds, studying the dress of the girl. “Was her dress made of feathers?”

AJ nods, looking at the one in Castiel’s hand. “Yeah, I think so.”

Dean comes up to them, and puts his hand between Cas’ shoulder blades. He takes the camera from him and studies the paused video, letting his eyes flick between the screen and the feather. After a moment, he looks up to Claire and announces, “I think you mighta been right.”

“I was?” Claire blinks. “About what?”

Instead of replying, Dean returns AJ’s camera to him. “Look, kid, you’re gonna go home and you’re gonna pretend this never happened.”

“But—"

Bringing himself up and squaring his shoulders, Dean looms over the boy, even if AJ is Castiel’s height. “It wasn’t a ghost. You said it yourself, she grabbed you and pushed you down, now we got proof she was wearing a real dress. We’re gonna call the cops, let them sort this out.”

“We’re _what?_ ” Claire asks.

“You said—" AJ protests.

“Now,” Dean interrupts, “you really want to explain to cops why you been setting up cameras around these cabins?”

“No...”

Castiel can see the boy is suitably frightened, and so he steps in. “Dean. I think he understands.”

Instantly, Dean relents, then adds, in a more understanding tone, “We just don’t want you to get in trouble, kid.”

“Yeah, yeah, ok,” AJ mumbles, obviously worried. He glances at Claire, who mouths ‘sorry’ to him, and he goes and gathers his things. In the span of a few minutes, they hear an old engine sputter to life, and headlights swing away from the lake and towards the main road.

Subdued, they head back to the cabin.

“What the _hell_ , Dean?” Claire snaps once they’re back inside. “You know it’s not just some girl wandering around! And you’re gonna call the _cops_?”

"’Course I’m not calling the cops,” Dean scoffs.

“Then _what_?”

“I think I know what it is,” Dean explains. “And I don’t want some innocent kid getting dragged in.”

Claire looks like she’s about to protest that, but Castiel beats her to it and instead says, “You said Claire was right. What do you think this is?”

“Selkies, except not,” he answers cryptically. To Claire, he continues, “You said what if it was some other animal. Like...maybe a bird?”

The teen’s eyes go wide with realization. “Oh my god, we’re so stupid. It’s even freaking called _Swan Lake._ ”

Settling at the table once more, they restart their search into the lore. It doesn’t take long before Castiel finds a page in one of the books he and Dean had brought with them that he believes might be helpful. “'Swan Maiden,'” he reads. “According to the myth, 'the swan maiden can shift between her swan and human form. They are generally known as peaceful creatures, and there are many stories about their interactions with humans, generally, human males.'”

Dean and Claire both look up from their own research.

“So, if they’re peaceful, what happened to Devon Hollister? And what’s up with the sister?” Claire wonders.

“Perhaps nothing happened to Devon Hollister. After all, his drowning was never confirmed,” Castiel answers. “Like the selkie and the selkie’s seal coat, if a human male takes the swan maiden’s feather garment—this says it’s a swan skin, but I think the dress is the more practical explanation—the maiden is bound to him as his wife and cannot return to the water. Often the maiden and her children, if the couple has any, will try to locate where the garment has been hidden so she can escape her human husband and return to her people.” He pauses. “This sister the girl has been asking about: it could be that Devon has her.”

“Dude, are you saying this guy stole some girl’s clothes, kidnapped her, took her from her family, went off the grid, and forced her to marry him?!” Dean asks in disgust. “People are the worst.”

Claire’s hands form fists on the table, and her expression grows hard. “We’re tracking this asshole down. He...he has no right.”

Carefully, Castiel reaches out, and when she doesn’t shy away, he covers one of her hands in his. He would give anything to take away the pain of her experiences, those for which he is responsible, and those for which he is not. In her eyes, Castiel can see the memory of the man to whom she had been sold, by someone who claimed to care about her, and his rage on her behalf boils up anew.

“We will, Claire,” Dean assures her, gently. “But we can’t tonight.” She glares at him, but he stays calm. “Unless you can hack police servers, we gotta wait until tomorrow. I’ll go to the station in the morning, see if I can use their databases to track him down, see where he might have gone.”

She nods, stiffly, her blue eyes bright. Without a word, she retreats back to her room.

Sleep does not come easy for any of them the rest of the night.

 

 

It’s mid-morning before Dean returns from the station with information. Claire and Cas had spent most the morning quietly going through all the lore they could find on swan maidens, as well as Devon Hollister’s case file, but neither had been able to find anything more of use. They’re back on the dock again, feet dangling below them, quietly sitting and thinking, when Dean’s heavy footfalls sound on the creaking boards.

“Got a lead,” he announces. “His truck was last seen about forty-five minutes north of here, abandoned about a week after he was presumed dead. Cops figured it must've been stolen.”

“What’s forty-five minutes north?” Castiel asks.

“Another lake. Pretty remote, but there are some private properties around it.”

Claire is already halfway down the dock, going back to the cabin to prepare.

 

 

According to Dean’s findings, only one of the properties around the lake has changed hands in recent years; the others have been owned by the same person or family for decades. Dean is driving Claire’s Explorer, all of them having decided that it could better handle the undoubtedly bumpy terrain they would encounter on the way to the rural location.

The air in the car is tense, but determined. It gives no Castiel no pleasure to see Claire check her weapons—a pistol and a knife—even if he would prefer that to her being unable to defend herself.

Dean pulls the car up next to the cabin. It’s about the same size as their rental, but has more “homey" touches: a clothesline with brightly colored fabrics is visible off to the side, a rake and a pair of boots are set outside the door, and there are flower beds below the front windows. It looks cheerful and loved, but Castiel has long learned about the deceptiveness of appearances.

They climb out of the car, each with weapons close at hand, but not drawn. Just as they do, a couple comes out of the woods leading down to the lake. The man, who Castiel recognizes as Devon Hollister, immediately pushes the woman, who is small, blonde, and bears a striking resemblance to their Lady of the Lake, behind him protectively.

“Devon Hollister?” Dean addresses him, drawing his out his gun, but keeping it pointed at the ground.

“How do you know that name?” the man asks, looking fearfully between the three of them.

Claire glares at him, and seems about to charge forward, but Castiel puts a calming hand to her shoulder. “Her sister is looking for her, you _bastard_ ,” she bites out and wrenches herself out of Castiel’s grip.

“Claire—"

The woman steps forward, despite Devon’s attempts to stop her. She is lovely, with grey eyes and softly curling blonde hair that reaches past her shoulders, bouncing lightly on her white, feathery dress. The detail finally registers with Castiel, and he takes a step forward, hoping to stop Claire before she does anything rash.

“Leanna?” the woman asks. “She’s looking for me?”

“Yeah, she is,” Dean tells her, before looking at Devon. “We’ve come to get her back, you sick fuck.”

Devon stammers. “What? No, you can’t take her—"

“What, you couldn’t get a date, so you decided to _kidnap_ someone?” Dean spits at him. “I’ve met some monsters, real monsters, in my day, but this...”

“Dean, I don’t think—" Cas tries.

“No, this isn’t what you think!” the woman exclaims.

“You’re not taking Loren! I didn’t _do_ anything,” Devon says, his voice panicked.

Claire snorts a bitter laugh. “Right. You’re just _such_ a good guy.”

Devon’s shoulders slump, but Loren stands tall. She takes him by the hand, and holds out the other in peace. “You know what I am, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Castiel confirms. Then, looking to Dean and Claire, he says, "I believe we should hear them out.”

“What the hell you talking about, man?”

“The dress. She has her dress.”

Dean and Claire’s faces clear instantly as they simultaneously recognize the significance. Dean tucks the gun back in his jeans again, then holds up his hands. “All right. Someone wanna explain what the hell this is, then?”

Loren and Devon exchange looks, and then Loren says, “I think we should talk.”

The inside of the cabin is cozy and inviting. Dean and Cas take seats on a sofa, while Loren and Devon sit on a loveseat perpendicular. They sit close to each other, their hands entwined. Claire remains standing, arms crossed, leaning against a wall.

“He didn’t kidnap me,” Loren starts, talking to them, but looking at Devon. “We met five years ago, almost to the day.”

“She told me she hated my shirt,” Devon adds, with a small smile. “First thing she said.”

“It was a terrible shirt,” Loren defends, looking to the three of them, scrunching her nose. “Bright yellow paisley.”

“Yeah, yeah, it was a terrible shirt.”

“And so it was love at first fashion fail?” Claire scoffs.

“No,” Devon says. “It was weeks before we finally realized we cared for each other.”

“Before I realized I could trust him with the truth,” Loren continues. “When I told him what I was, I thought he would be horrified. And my sister... Leanna doesn’t trust humans. Our mother was taken by one. Her ‘husband’, our father..."

Devon’s grip on Loren’s hand tightens at the bitterness in her voice, his thumb rubbing small circles onto the back of her hand. Cas looks next to him, sees Dean’s hands, and he thinks of the day in the library when he had healed the hunter’s wrist, all of the touches they’ve shared since, and he aches for more. Looking at Devon and Loren again, seeing their closeness, he knows they are telling the truth. There are no monsters here.

Claire seems to have noticed this as well, and her posture relaxes against the wall.

“We ran away. Couldn’t exactly explain to people that my girlfriend is a swan half the time. Best case scenario, they’d think I was crazy. And honestly,” Devon smiles as Loren, “I didn’t have much going on in my life before. Loren saved me, gave me something to live for. We just want to live in peace,” he says, turning back to them. “We’re not hurting anyone.”

“Except your sister,” Claire points out to Loren.

“She wouldn’t understand. She distrusts humans, she would never accept that I fell in love with one.”

Castiel looks down at his hands before bringing his gaze back up and saying, “Perhaps not. But if you have chosen, even if your family does not approve, they should still know you are safe, that you chose of your own free will. They may still see it as a betrayal, but then that is on them, not you.” He pauses, trying to find the words, very aware of Dean’s eyes boring into him from the side. "Hopefully, you do not have to choose one side of yourself over another, one family over another.”

Loren peers at him. “You’re not human, are you?”

“No.”

“Was your choice worth it?”

“Yes.” The reply comes to his lips with no hesitation. “I chose acceptance. Love. I am not sure I am worthy of either, but I hope to earn them. Maybe someday my former brethren will understand, but I do not regret my decision, even if they do not change their minds.”  

He finds he cannot meet Dean and Claire’s eyes, though he feels them on him.

Loren considers this, looking between him and Dean and Claire. Nodding once, she says, “I will tell her. Leanna and I were always close. I miss her.”

“She misses you, too,” Castiel assures her.

He and Dean stand up, but before they leave, Dean clears his throat, and turns back to Devon. “I dunno if you left anyone behind, but you should tell them you’re alive, and tell them the truth, all of it. If they care about you..." He pauses, letting the thought trail off. “Don’t hide.”

Nodding brusquely, he walks out of the cabin, leaving Cas and Claire behind. They follow, quietly. Claire’s arms are crossed, and she stops outside the cabin, and Castiel stops with her.

“I’m sorry I got mad, you know, before.”

“Claire, you have nothing to apologize for.”

She uncrosses her arms, and unexpectedly throws them around Castiel’s waist. Hesitantly, he brings his own up to her shoulders, one hand on the back of her head.

“It sucks you had to choose,” she says into his shirt. “But I’m glad you chose us.”

He leans his cheek against the top of her head. “I’m glad, too.”

 

 

Back at their rental, they quickly pack their bags into their cars. Dean is leaning back on the car when Claire emerges from the cabin, his hands shoved into his pockets. “You ok, Claire?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” she says, glancing back at the cabin. “Sorry the case turned out to be nothing.”

Dean shakes his head. “Wasn’t nothing. Just because it wasn’t anything bad doesn’t mean it wasn’t a real case. We mighta still helped someone.”

He puts an arm out and takes her into a one-armed hug, quickly pressing a kiss to her hair. Something warm spreads in Castiel’s chest as he watches.

Quietly, but not quietly enough to escape Castiel’s celestial hearing, Claire mutters to Dean, “You should take your own advice, you know.”

To Castiel, she gives another embrace, then asks, “Maybe you could come visit sometime? I know it’s Jody’s house, but I don’t think she’d mind.”

“I would love to,” he answers with perfect honesty, touched by the gesture.

And too quickly, she’s in her car, driving back to Sioux Falls. Castiel watches until the tail-lights disappear before turning back to Dean.

“She’s a smart kid,” Dean smirks awkwardly, kicking a loose rock, following its tumble down the grassy slope with his eyes. Finally he looks up, steeling himself with a deep breath. “Cas, I, uh...you know I’m shit with this kinda stuff. But, I meant what I said back there. I don’t wanna hide this anymore.”

“Nor do I.”

Dean huffs a laugh. “I don’t think it’s really a secret anyway. If I get one more stupid look from Sammy..."

Stepping forward, Cas takes Dean’s hand in his, then cups his jaw with the other, his thumb just grazing his cheek. Wide green eyes search him, but Cas’ gaze is steady. “Dean, I said I would stay, and while I want this, I am willing to wait until you are ready.”

Dean’s voice is low, just above a whisper. “I thought, after Lucifer and everything, you wouldn’t want..." He gives a crooked smile. “Coupla dumbasses.”

Cas isn’t sure who moves first, but it doesn’t matter, in the end. The kiss is soft, careful, chaste. It’s over in a second, but he knows its imprint will last on him forever. Resting their foreheads together, eyes closed, he feels Dean grin, and repeat, “Yeah, coupla dumbasses.”

“Can we go home?” Cas asks softly.

“Yeah, Cas. Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, the tags do say slow burn....I guess 70k words is pretty slow. :-P
> 
> Oh and this totally isn't the end, not even close. This isn't just a Destiel story. :)


	25. Out and About

It’s weird, being in the Bunker without Sam for so long. It’s been almost a week since he and Cas returned from Nebraska, and while they have certainly taken advantage of the privacy afforded by Sam and Mary’s road trip (turns out Cas picked up more than a few tips from the pizza man somewhere along the line, or maybe he’s just a natural), Dean has to admit, he misses his brother.

And while he loves having his mom back, it’s...different. Not bad, but different. He sometimes feels like he and Sam are constantly checking themselves, unsure how much to say about their lives as hunters, what they’ve been through. Even some of the normal brotherly crap they regularly torment each other with is different—there are just some jokes and references you do _not_ make with your mom around, no matter how cool and badass she is.

But, in any case, Dean’s pretty happy when he gets a text over breakfast saying Sam and Mary will be back to the Bunker around noon today. Which should be any minute.

With a current lack of hunts (not that he’s really been looking—hell, he saved the world, he thinks he’s earned a little downtime), Dean’s taken it upon himself to put some time in on one of his pet projects, one that has sadly been neglected of late, considering the absolute shittiness that’s been their lives for the past...forever.

He may have made the promise to keep an eye on the bike to Dorothy, but it’s Charlie he thinks of as he gives the very old, but still incredibly awesome, motorcycle a tune-up. It’s been a little bit of a learning curve, since most of his mechanic experience is on cars, but in truth, he’s enjoyed tinkering with it and getting it back in running shape. The Men of Letters had taken care of the bike for Dorothy for years, but during the fifty years before Dean and Sam made the Bunker their home, it had simply sat, collecting dust.

“Hand me that rag, will ya?” Dean asks Cas, who, for some reason, has decided that the garage is as good a place as any to work on translating one of the Enochian tomes from the library.

Without looking away from the page, Cas picks up the rag from the workbench Dean’s got set up, and where the angel has carved out a corner for his book and notes. He hands it to Dean with minimal effort, clearly still engrossed in his work. Dean rolls his eyes fondly, reaching over from the stool he’s sitting on, cleaning a valve. It’d probably be less effort to just get up and get the rag, but it’s the principle of the thing. He nearly falls off in his reach, but apparently, whatever some guy (who’s been dead since before togas weren't just for frat parties) wrote is just _super_ fascinating because Cas doesn’t even flinch.

Nerd angels.

“Just because I don’t react to your every mood and whim doesn’t mean I am unaware of the look you’re giving me, Dean,” Cas remarks in a deep, near-monotone; Dean can’t quite tell if he’s just utterly done with Dean’s bullshit or if he’s busting out that deadpan sass of his. It’s always a fine line, and Cas walks it like a fucking pro.

He’s hoping for the sass, mostly because getting smited, in a garage after nearly falling off a stool, by his...whatever he’s calling Cas...is not exactly the blaze of glory Dean was banking on for his final moments.

“Oh, you love it,” Dean retorts flippantly, then instantly freezes, internally panicking that Cas is going to make some extremely earnest and awkward (for Dean, because, yeah) affirmation of that point.

Instead, Cas just gives an unamused _hrmph_ , which Dean shouldn’t find all manners of hot, but definitely does.

Because, apparently, this is his life now, and _when the hell did this happen._

He’s almost done polishing off fifty years of caked-on grime to reveal shiny silver steel when Cas lets out a low rumble of laughter, and then rattles off a string of rough syllables that Dean thinks sound more like a cat with a bad cigarette habit hacking up a hairball than an actual language, but hey, what does he know.

“This one of those funnier in Enochian things?” 

“In a sense,” Castiel replies, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’m fairly certain the author meant to describe the intense relief and joy he felt when his ill mother was saved by the Grace of an angel—which is probably a valid account: Raziel was always very ‘hands on’ in these matters—but he instead writes, ‘I looked upon my mother and beheld a vile rodent, and I rejoiced that we had been blessed by God.’”

“Did his father smell of elderberries?” Dean snorts, even if Cas doesn’t dignify it with a response. “Hope he didn’t put that on a Mother’s Day card.”

“Indeed,” Cas agrees, then shakes his head in amusement, as if at a private joke. “Serifs.”

“They’ll getcha,” Dean nods in mock seriousness, only having the vaguest idea of what a serif is and why they’re important. Something about fonts, that’s all he knows.

His ears perk up instantly at the echoing rumble of Baby’s engine in the tunnel that leads to the outside, and he grins at her sleek black shape. Mary steers the car into the center of the garage and parks her, and seeing her handle Baby like an old friend sends up a confused flurry of emotions in Dean: she looks both so right behind the wheel and so foreign. Feeling guilty at that last part, he puts down the valve and instead stands up to welcome them home.

Through the open windows, Dean can see they look exhausted, but the good kind. His grin widens further when he notes just how relaxed Sam, in particular, looks; he can’t remember the last time his brother ever looked so at ease, and especially around their mother. Clearly, this trip was a good idea (obviously: it was Dean’s, after all).

Dean is less enthused, however, by the sounds of some soft alternative rock or some shit that Sammy’s got pumping through Baby’s speakers.

Bitch better not have put another iPod jack in there.

In any case, the two of them unfold themselves from the car, stretching and cracking joints. Mary comes over to them, simultaneously putting up her hair in a loose bun. She stops by the table and Cas first, offering a polite, “Hi, Cas.”

“Hello, Mary.”

“What’re you working on?”

“Translating this from Enochian. It’s a Sumerian text, but this scholar felt his revelations would be better told in the language of angels. I’ve been trying to go through some of the more obscure and arcane texts in the library, make them more accessible to others.”

“You mean humans,” Mary clarifies. Cas nods.

There’s still an undercurrent of question in Mary’s words, but Dean’s relieved that she seems to be more trusting of Cas lately. He’s not entirely sure what flipped the switch, but he’s grateful for it. Now, Mary just seems to regard Cas like a puzzle she can’t quite work out. He’s half tempted to take her aside, give her a “good luck", and explain that even after all these years, there are times when Cas is still an utter mystery to _him_ ,and he probably knows Cas better than any human out there.

“Tell her the epic typo you just came across,” Dean jumps in, just as Sam joins them. “Hey, man. Good trip?”

Sam gives him a half-smile, but it’s genuine and earnest and just shy of puppy-dog eye status. “Yeah. Thanks, Dean.”

“Don’t mention it.” He’s got a feeling Sam’s gonna want to _talk_ soon, but for right now, Dean’s just glad to have the rest of his family back.

“So, epic typo?” Sam asks Cas, ever the geeky bookworm. Dean leans against the workbench while Cas points to his translation in the notebook; Sam and Mary both lean forward to read the angel’s precise handwriting. Each sniggers when they’re done, and then Sam starts asking Cas questions about this nuance or that and Dean just really doesn’t care, but he does smile at the scene. Mary comes over to him, and rests a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, Dean,” she says, then looks down at his grease-stained hands. “I’d give you a hug, but..."

“Hey, Mom,” he grins in greeting. He follows her gaze to the bike.

“I didn’t know you rode.”

“I can,” he acknowledges, “but cars are more my thing.” They each take a step closer to the motorcycle. It’s not flashy, not like modern bikes, but Dean kind of likes it that way. “Guess who it belongs to.”

Mary eyes the bike, then looks back at Sam and Cas. “It seems small for any of you. Was it a woman?”

“Yep.”

“Your friend you mentioned...Charlie?”

Dean shakes his head, but adds, “No, but Charlie’s part of the story. Nah, it was Dorothy Baum. Hunter, daughter of a Man of Letters. Total badass, and I’m pretty sure Charlie had a thing for her. And by pretty sure, I mean I’m positive.”

“Dorothy Baum..." Mary says the name slowly, like she can’t quite place it. “Baum..."

“When she left, she had a feeling she wasn’t in Kansas anymore.”

Mary’s eyes go wide. “Dorothy, like, _Wizard of Oz_ Dorothy?!”

“Bingo. Got trapped in the Bunker with the Wicked Witch until a couple years ago, we took care of that, and then she and Charlie took off for Oz to save that world. Charlie came back, but as far as we know, Dorothy’s still over there fighting the good fight.”

She shakes her head in amazement. “Every time I hear one of your stories, I think, _that has to be the craziest_. And then you prove me wrong.” Mary puts a hand on the worn leather of the bike’s seat, then trails it over the handlebars. “It is a really nice bike.”

Something about that hits Dean, and he asks, mouth dangerously close to hanging open like a fish, “Do _you_ ride?”

Mary turns, gives Dean a smirk, and replies, “Let’s just say _your_ father wasn’t the first boyfriend I had that _my_ father didn’t approve of.”

Yep, jaw, meet floor.

“Mom..." Dean sputters out. “Did not need to know.”

Grinning at his discomfort, Mary gives him another pat on the shoulder, then announces, heading to the car to grab her duffel bag, “Anyway, I’m worn out. I’m gonna nap for the next day and half.”

Sam and Cas look up from their nerdom when Mary leaves long enough to notice Dean’s expression, and Sam asks, “Dude, you ok?”

“Mom,” Dean replies by way of explanation, shaking his head. “Did you know she knows how to ride a motorcycle?”

Sam shrugs. “There’s a lot we don’t know about Mom.”

“And that she learned from a boyfriend _who wasn’t Dad?_ ”

Raising an eyebrow, somehow far less bothered by this (Dean considers checking his brother for possession because how can he _not_ be weirded out by that?), Sam just remarks, “You’re really gonna play that card, given _your_ history?”

“But, it’s _Mom_ ,” Dean protests.

“Who is a _real person_ ,” Sam counters.

Dean looks between Sam and Cas in disbelief. “Oh, c’mon. Cas, back me up on this.”

Cas fixes Dean with a look that clearly says, _You better be thankful I like you too much to smite you, but don’t test me by dragging me into this._ “I hardly think I am one to ask for input on mother-son relationships.”

Dean returns his own look, trying to convey, _You better back me up on this or else that thing we did this morning? In the kitchen? Yeah, no more of that, buddy. Not for a long while._

(Which is kind of a shitty threat, now that Dean thinks about it, because that means _he_ doesn’t get kitchen funtimes, too...)

Sam clears his throat. “Uh, you two need a minute? Or a room?”

“Shut up, Sammy,” Dean retorts, feeling the back of his neck heat up.

Cas looks entirely too triumphant and smug at this exchange, and he closes his book and gathers his notes, standing up from the table. “It’s good to have you back, Sam,” he says on his way out.

“Thanks, Cas. Good to see you around, too,” Sam agrees. He leans back against the table, which shifts slightly at his weight until coming to rest flush against the wall. Dean returns to his restoration project, determinedly not looking his brother in the eye, and instead crouching by the bike to place the part he’d been cleaning earlier. After a minute, and once Cas is definitely out of earshot, even for an angel, Sam asks, “So, things good? With you and Cas?” 

Dean grunts. “Yeah.”

“Do you...want to talk about it?”

Dean shoots a look at his brother over his shoulder. “Have I ever answered ‘yes’ to that question?”

“No, but..."

“We’re good, Sam. Really good. That’s all you gotta know.” He agreed not to hide this thing with Cas, but he sure as shit didn’t sign up to have a heart-to-heart about it with his brother.

“Fine,” Sam answers, and even if Dean’s turned back to the bike, he can practically feel the eye-roll behind him. “How about that case you went on?”

“Claire called us in, thought it was a ghost or something. Just a swan maiden who thought her sister’d been abducted.”

“Swan maiden?”

“Like a selkie, but, you know, swans.”

“Huh,” Sam muses. “And the sister?”

“Totally fine. Ran off with some human dude. It was all star-crossed lovers and shit. No one died, no one got hurt.”

His brother chuckles. “Was that a _Romeo and Juliet_ quote?”

“Shut up. I read.” If there’s one thing Dean learned bouncing around schools growing up, it’s that every. damn. school. tries to get teenagers to like Shakespeare and nine outta ten times, it’s through _Romeo and Juliet._ He’s pretty sure he suffered through it at least three or four times. “How about you? You drag her to every nerdy place in the country? Grand tour of US libraries and historical sites?”

“No,” Sam says. “Well, a couple. Hiked Bryce Canyon. Did the Molly Brown House tour in Denver.”

“Haunted, like they say?”

“Nope. No EMF, nothing.”

Dean chuckles, returning to the table to grab a wrench. “Nerd.”

“Oh!” Sam says suddenly, heading back to the Impala. “Did something else in Denver.” From the trunk, he pulls out a t-shirt and tosses it to Dean.

“Coors?” Dean reads from the shirt. “What, no beer?” Sam pulls out a 12-pack from the trunk next. “Yeah, now we’re talking.”

Dean rips open the box, and they each take a can. After deep swigs each, Sam says quietly, “We went to Lawrence. And to Stanford.”

He almost chokes on his beer and nearly pulls a muscle turning his head that fast. “Shit. You guys ok?”

“Yeah,” Sam nods, studying his can. “I think we both needed to do it.”

They drink quietly for a minute, Dean wondering what he could possibly say to that news. Luckily, it seems that Sam must’ve faced whatever demons and come out the other side, more or less, because he seems less upset by revisiting the past than Dean might have expected. Or, at least, he’s doing a damn fine job of bottling that shit up, Winchester style.

“Dean, what’re we gonna do about Mom?”

“Whadya mean?” Dean frowns at his brother.

Sam purses his lips. “Look, it’s not that I don’t want her back, obviously, and spending time with her was... I feel like I actually kind of know her as _her_ now. But..."

“But what?”

“This isn’t her life. She never wanted this for us, and now she’s been dumped in the middle of all the crap she tried to escape, and it’s _thirty years later_. This isn’t her world anymore. And..." He puts his beer down on the table. “We’ve just been assuming she’d want to just stick around, y'know, join the family business, but what if she doesn’t want that? What if she wants to do something else but feels like if she does..."

"...that she’d be abandoning us again?” Dean finishes his beer. It’s warm from the car, but he’s not really drinking for taste right now.

“I mean, I don’t think she’s gonna stay home and make us sandwiches for the road when we go out on a hunt, but what if she wants to do something _different_? Something outside hunting? This could be her chance.”

“You saying we’re trapping her?” His gut clenches. Same goddamn song, different verse.

Sam shakes his head, trying to be reassuring, and Dean fucking hates that his brother can read him so well. “Just because someone leaves the life doesn’t mean they have to leave the family.”

Dean looks his brother in the eye. “You planning on leaving again?”

“No.” There’s a finality in the word that convinces Dean. “But I am saying maybe we should let Mom make her own decisions.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, failing to keep the misery out of his voice. “Well, I guess we’ll see.”

The second beer goes down harder than the first.

 

 

He didn’t even mean for it to happen, but in retrospect, he’s kind of surprised it didn’t happen sooner.

Dean blames a lack of caffeine.

It was morning, and he’d shuffled into the kitchen, looking for his daily cup of coffee to take outside to drink with Cas on their hill—yeah, he thinks of it as their hill now, and everyone can shut the hell up, thanks—because even though Cas is still angelified, with Heaven closed for business, he’s gotta rest at night, if even for just a couple hours, and the guy’s still on his post-trapped-in-his-own-body nature kick, so getting up early and watching sunrises is kinda his thing. Dean’s not usually up for the sunrise part, but he’s generally there with plenty of time to mock Sam’s jogging habit.

Instead of finding, as per usual, an empty kitchen one mug short—apparently, Mary’s an early riser, too, because there’s something obviously wrong with everyone in this family—he’d found Cas just getting up from the table, where he’d clearly been having a conversation with his mom.

“Hey,” he’d grunted out in their general directions.

“Morning,” Mary had replied from her seat, while Cas said, “Good morning, Dean.”

“Staying in today?” he’d yawned, ruffling his own sleep-messy hair.

“It’s raining.”

“You gonna melt?”

“No, but I also have no desire to be struck by lightning, even if I’m sure, as an angel, I could handle it,” Cas'd deadpanned as Dean walked closer. “There’s more coffee for you.”

“Thanks,” he had answered, and then kissed him. Just a quick peck on the way by.

He didn’t even realize what he’d done until he’d reached the stack of white and red mugs, and then he’d frozen. It was all just so domestic and casual and fucking _normal._ Dean doesn't do  _normal_ , and definitely not like this, not when...

From behind him, he’d sort of heard Cas say something about having things to do elsewhere (processing had kind of fallen by the wayside momentarily), and then he’d stoically grabbed a cup, poured himself some coffee, and sat down across from his mother like it was no big deal.

Except that it totally was, and now he’s avoiding his mother’s eyes and pretending that this coffee is the most important thing in all of existence.

Then again, it just might be.

“Dean?”

So _that’s_ where Sammy inherited his “let’s talk about our feelings" tone of voice.

“Yeah?” Dean asks, trying for casual.

“Are you ok?”

"’Course. Just early, you know.”

Mary looks at him, her expression a little guarded, but ultimately sympathetic. “I know you think I don’t like Cas, but that’s not true. You don’t have to pretend anymore, Dean. It just took me awhile to accept—"

“Mom,” Dean interrupts, his voice low, strangled. _Fucking hell._ This is worse than the look his dad had given him when he was twenty-four and he’d charmed (flirted) his way into getting information from an obviously interested, and very male, store clerk when they were on a case. John hadn’t been angry, but there had been questions in his eyes that Dean hadn’t wanted to answer, beyond brushing the whole situation off as just getting the job done. “No, just. Don’t.”

But of course, Mary doesn’t stop. “Dean, it’s just the way I was raised. Humans were humans, everything else was an enemy. There wasn’t a lot of grey area.”

Dean stares at her. “Wait, what?”

Mary frowns. “I’m just saying that I know it might take me awhile to wrap my head around it, but I see the way you and Cas and Sam act. He’s your family. I sometimes feel like I’m on the outside, to be honest. And if Cas makes you happy—"

“Wait, _what_?” Dean repeats, because apparently those are the only two words he knows.

Pausing, Mary looks at him. She’s quiet for a moment, then asks, hesitantly, “Were you worried because Cas is a man?”

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, and puts down his coffee cup, rubbing a hand over his face. “Mom, I know a lot of shit’s changed since 1983, but it’s not like everyone’s on board yet. And Dad wasn’t exactly Mr. Warm Fuzzies and Political Correctness.”

Granted, it's not like it ever really came up in conversation or John had ever voiced an opinion one way or another, but that's just it: it wasn't something they _ever_ talked about.

“Oh.” Mary’s frown deepens. “I won’t lie, it was a little surprising, but, if you think I would love you any less..." She actually looks hurt by the assumption. “And as for your father..." She shakes her head. “I don’t know everything he said or did, and I know he was a different man after I died, and I’m not trying to apologize for him or your childhood, but...I know he loved you and Sam, above all.”   

“Yeah.” Suddenly, he can’t choke down this coffee anymore, and he goes to the sink to dump it out.

“I’m sorry, Dean. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“Bound to happen,” he sighs out.

Dean braces himself on the edge of the sink, staring down the drain. He takes a deep breath, then turns back around. This is exactly why he was so hesitant to take this next step with Cas, because he knows he’s fucked in the head, and Cas has had so much shit going on, too, but they’d agreed: no more pretending, no more hiding, no more _waiting_.

She gets up and places her own mug in the sink, next to his. Putting a hand on each side of his face, she looks him steadily in the eye. “I just want... I wouldn’t have chosen this life for you, or Sam. I tried to get you as far away from it as I could. But, if you’ve found something, someone, that makes you happy...that’s all I want.”

“Thanks, Mom.” He clears his throat, feeling at once relieved and emotionally raw.

He wonders if having family will ever be easy.

And from some (probably booze-addled) corner of his mind, he hears a familiar voice pipe up, _Of course not, y’idjit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Mary not just making sandwiches while boys hunt comment is basically lifted from something [Jared said in an interview at SDCC](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HaNPFZ8dJR8).
> 
> Also, Mary and Dean's conversation is purposefully uncomfortable. I didn't want her to just be all like OMG YAY KISS THE CUTE ANGEL BOY *waves a rainbow flag* (even though there's a part of me that's a sucker for that in fics, if it's done well or it's supposed to be cracky). And if Mary's reaction to Cas seems inconsistent, just keep in mind that her coming to accept/trust Cas as Cas is VERY different from her coming to accept that her son is dating/in love with Cas. (Ex: she hugs Cas when she meets him because she knows he helped save her Sammy -- very emotional reaction in the moment)
> 
> And I'm not trying to make John out to be homophobic because I feel like that is just so overused, and while I don't want to handwave all the crap he did (because there's A LOT and he was pretty terrible), I don't think he was quite as awful as some people headcanon him to be. I think John wouldn't have been particularly happy if one of his sons came out, but I don't think he'd disown him or anything.


	26. Give Me Something to Sing About

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a shortish chapter, but I hope you enjoy. :)

_Who_ _am_ _I?_

The mirror doesn’t provide any answers. It just asks more questions. She’s herself, but not. There are more lines around her eyes than she remembers. Her blonde hair hides it well, but she’s come across a few grey strands. Her knees creak a little on the stairs.

She remembers how she felt, after Dean was born. How she felt like her body hadn’t been put together quite right, and she wondered if it ever would be again.

It took her a long time to feel comfortable in her own skin again, no matter how many times John told her she was beautiful, no matter how many times she looked at her baby boy and knew it was all worth it, that she wouldn’t change a thing.

Her friends and the nurses who were mothers had told her that was normal, that was motherhood.

But this? This isn’t normal.

She was _dead_.

She was a spirit in the house she died in _for over twenty years._

She was in Heaven for _ten years._

(Even if, in Heaven, time is relative and is everything and nothing.)

And now she’s back on Earth and everything is bright and cold all at once and nothing makes sense.

“You still miss Heaven,” the angel had said, without preamble, the other morning because the angel hasn’t quite seemed to pick up the knack of starting a conversation, despite all of his other human tendencies. “That is why you have difficulty sleeping.”

She’d wanted to deny it, had hated that _the angel_ was the only one who seemed to understand.

But apparently he hadn’t needed a response, a confirmation or a denial.

“Have you told Dean or Sam?”

“How could I?” she’d countered, angry, bitter, sad.

Blue eyes had softened, the angel’s head had tilted in concern. “You think they wouldn’t understand.” He paused, measuring his words carefully. “I think they might surprise you.”

Not understanding. The theme of her second life.

She feels lost, stumbling through a world so familiar and yet so achingly different.

Every word taking on new meanings, each having so many hidden depths and touching upon so many layers she can’t even begin to comprehend.

The look on Dean’s face when she’d tried, she’d really _tried,_ to understand, to be accepting, to explain to her son, this man she hardly knows, that she loves him unconditionally, even if this life is confusing and is no longer a simple black and white ( _was it ever?_ ).

The way Sam, the little baby she never had the chance to know, has grown into a man who has come to terms with his place in the world, one that includes the monsters and demons she’d run from.

She doesn’t know the face in the mirror. She can still see _herself_ , the woman she was when she died ( _that was thirty-three years ago, it didn’t just happen, but it feels like it wasn’t long ago..._ ). But is she that woman any more?

Can she be?

Does she want to be?

Her fist clenches, and she takes a deep breath, steadying her hand to keep from punching the glass. Looking down, she catches sight of a white metal box, tucked into the corner. Opening it, she finds what she needs.

The scissors are clean, sterilized and free of all the blood they’ve seen, still sharp despite all the thread for stitches they’ve cut, all the clothing they've cut through. Washed of their history, put away for another day.

Blonde hair tickles her feet as it lands on the floor. Something else to be swept away.

The cut looks even, though a professional would probably disagree. It’s still long enough to pull up and away from her face, but short enough that it clears her shoulders. She still looks like herself, but not like _her_ , not Mary Winchester, beloved mother and wife, who died on November 2, 1983.

She is Mary Winchester. But what does that _mean_?

 

 

Demons, working together with vampires. The vampires attack, drink from and turn their victims, threaten to do the same to their families. The demons arrive, reverse the process, all for the low price of a soul. The vampire victim pool never depletes, the demon business model is a sure-fire success.

The shifter case in Minnesota had been bloody, and she had dealt the final blow herself, but it was nothing like this. Her sons are covered in red, headless vampires are strewn around the old barn. Sam and Mary have gone to the newly turned hostages, Sam reassuring them they can be cured without the demons. Castiel thrusts his blade into one demon, a fluid movement that is almost too quick for Mary to follow. Dean’s eyes are murderous as he stands over a demon’s body, and how can these be her sons, her sweet boys?

Her hands are covered in blood. She wipes them on the legs of her jeans, but the sticky red remains.

_Who would’ve thought something undead would have had so much blood in it?_

“Hello, boys,” says a voice from behind her. It’s drawling and nearly lecherous and she knows she’s heard it before.

“Crowley,” Dean greets uncharitably. “What, you pissed we took out your guys?”

“Hardly,” the demon dismisses, pacing around the barn like he’s out for a Sunday stroll. “Really, I’m here to thank you. While entrepreneurial—and I will enjoy reaping the souls they acquired—these demons are not mine.”

“Still trouble in paradise?”

Crowley, however, doesn’t respond to that, instead sizing up the angel, who stiffens at the demon’s approach.

"Castiel,” he sing-songs with evil delight. “When I said way back when that I could smell the Impala all over you, I was being metaphorical. But then, you always were one for the literal. No sense of humor. Shame, really.”

Castiel glares, and there’s a dangerous flash in his eyes.

Crowley smirks. “I don’t think you’ll smite me, Castiel. Can’t get it up, can you? Well, not for _this_ , at least..."

“What do you _want_?” Sam bites out, pushing the hostages behind him. Dean’s grip on the demon-killing knife tightens.

Crowley turns to them. “Didn’t I already say? I’m here to thank you. With this, I’m one step closer to reclaiming my throne, once and for all. Besides, Moose, we saved the world together. I thought we were besties. Partners in crime.” There’s a look in his eye when he says this last part, directed at Dean, that makes Mary’s hackles rise.

“Fuck off, Crowley.”

Ignoring that, Crowley turns, finally catching sight of Mary. “Well, well, what have we here?” Looking between the brothers, he adds. “You know it’s quite rude not to introduce me to your mother, boys. Not when we’re practically family.”

“Yeah, well, we’ve met your mother, and that was just a fucking delight,” Dean retorts. “Go deal with your own mommy issues.”

“I know who you are,” Mary says at last, her voice low and hard. “You are not family.”

The demon's smug grin doesn't meet his eyes. “I wouldn’t be so sure. I'd have thought Dean would love to share our exploits together. You should ask him sometime.”

While she doesn’t know the specifics, she knows her sons have a tangled relationship with the King of Hell, and she knows there was something about Dean and becoming a Knight of Hell, but hearing it declared and alluded to with such glee from this demon sends a cold shiver down her spine.

“Besides,” the demon continues, “it’s not as if this is the first time a Campbell’s come back to join the fray.”

“What?”

Crowley’s eyebrows shoot up in mock amazement. “You mean they didn’t tell you?” To Sam and Dean, he taunts, “Keeping secrets from your mum? My, my. What a happy family.”

Castiel steps forward, blade at the ready. “Go, Crowley.” His voice crackles with power, but either the demon is genuinely unafraid or he is remarkably good at hiding it.

“Honestly, I come here with the best of intentions. No good deed goes unpunished, eh?” He surveys the room, his eyes lingering on Mary. “Well, enjoy your family reunion.”

And then he is gone.

 

 

The car is tense, the blood still stains her hands.

“What did he mean, that I’m not the first Campbell to come back?”

Sam, Dean, and Castiel all give each other undecipherable looks.

It’s Dean who begins the story of how Crowley brought back her father, made him work for the demon. It’s Sam who explains how he hunted with Samuel for months, soulless. It’s Castiel who apologizes for his war in Heaven that led to Crowley’s decision.

“What happened to him?” she chokes out.

Sam’s jaw tightens, and she can only see his profile from where he sits in the passenger seat. Dean’s knuckles whiten on the wheel. Castiel is still, inhumanly still, in the seat beside her.

“The job happened,” is all Dean will say.

Her hands are still red. She knows she’ll never be able to wash them clean.

 

 

“Dean?”

“No, it’s Mary. I didn’t have your number, so I borrowed his phone.”

“Mary! Hi, everything ok?” Jody’s voice is a mix of friendliness and concern.

Mary bites her lip, unsure if this is a good idea, if she has any right to impose. “Yeah,” she answers, hating the false brightness in her voice. “I was just wondering...does the offer still stand? You said if I ever wanted to talk?”

Jody chuckles. “Finally need a break from the boys?”

“Something like that.”

Jody pauses for a minute. “Omaha’s not quite an even split between here and there, but it’s close enough. How’s Friday sound? I know a couple places we can go.”

“I’d like that,” Mary agrees.

“Great. You got a number? I can text you the address.”

“Yeah,” she answers, and rattles off the number of the phone the boys had acquired for her. It’s not a “smartphone", it doesn’t do all the things theirs can do, but it has actual buttons and can “text" (which Mary has come to learn is the preferred method of communication these days). She often forgets she has it—besides Dean and Sam and Castiel, who would she call?—but she can definitely see their use and practicality.

She and Jody hang up a minute later, and Mary realizes there’s one other snag in her plan.

How’s she going to get to Omaha?

 

 

“But it’s not yours,” Mary points out, frowning at the bike.

Dean shrugs. “Yeah, but I don’t think Dorothy would want it just sitting around, and I don’t think she’s coming back anytime soon. She’d want it to get some use, and I think she’d definitely be ok with you being the one to take her for a spin.” He gives a small, sad, smile. “I think Charlie’d want you to have it, too.”

“And it’s safe to ride?”

“Yep, finished working on her yesterday.” He goes to the workbench and picks up a helmet that looks far newer than the bike. “Should probably take her out now, short ride around town, get used to how she handles.”

Mary takes the helmet cautiously. It’s been _years_ , even for her, since she’s ridden, but as she settles herself on the bike, the muscle memory comes back to her. Dean grins, his arms crossed, his stance wide but relaxed.

“How do I look?”

“Like a badass, Mom.”

The engine rumbles to life, and she heads to the garage tunnel. She takes it slow, getting a feel for the bike under her. By the time she reaches the main road, she feels like she’s been doing this her whole life. Just her and the open road, the wind buffeting her jacket.

Her heart sinks a little, guiltily, when she turns the bike back to the Bunker.

 

 

The place Jody picks is half bar, half restaurant. The walls are warm wood paneling below dark red paint, the floors are clean, the lighting is low, but not too dark. The bar area is busy, but not crowded, and they opt for a high top table. Jody orders a glass of pinot noir; Mary does the same. They order an appetizer, a spinach and artichoke dip that comes with pita chips and carrot sticks on the side.

“So, how are things going in Kansas?” Jody asks once they’ve both sampled the appetizer, which really is very good.

“They’re fine.”

The sheriff gives her a look. “Mary, I don’t know you well, but you’re about as good as saying everything’s ‘fine’ as your boys.”

Mary smiles sadly. “Are they really my ‘boys’? It may not look like it, but they’re older than I am. They’re grown _men_. I barely know them.”

“Well, you got me beat on the age thing. But Claire and Alex are mine,” Jody counters. “And I know Claire isn’t technically Castiel’s, but I also know she came back from Nebraska a lot happier than when she left.” Something must have flitted across her face, because Jody arches an eyebrow and adds, “Not Castiel’s biggest fan, I take it?”

Mary sighs. “No. Castiel is fine. It just...takes awhile to get used to having an angel considered part of the family. He’s..."

Jody’s eyes narrow over her wine glass. “This isn’t about him and Dean, is it? And yeah, Claire told me.” She puts down the glass. “I know things were different back in the 80s, but...”

“No!” Mary defends, probably a little too quickly, and is a little ashamed that while she doesn't think there's anything _wrong_ with it, she still isn't entirely sure how she  _feels_ about it; it's just...one more thing to have to get used to about today. But she would never dislike or hate someone for being homosexual. (Bisexual? She'd tried looking on the computer, but it had all been extremely confusing, and she hasn't dared to broach the topic with Dean again.) Earnestly, and more calmly, she adds, “That’s not it.”

The sheriff shrugs. “Just making sure. South Dakota isn’t exactly a hotbed of social justice, and neither is Kansas, but things are still a lot different, lot better, than they were.”

Mary takes a sip of her own wine, and she wishes she’d ordered something stronger, like whiskey. “It’s not...about them. It’s just that Castiel is a reminder, everything they _do_ is a reminder, that this is their life. They’re hunters, and I tried so hard to get them away from that, but I didn’t protect them, and it’s all my fault they got dragged back into it again.”

Settling back in her chair, Jody is silent for a moment. “Mary, I’ll be the first to admit I’ve only gotten bits and pieces of what’s gone down in Sam and Dean’s lives, but I know they don’t blame you.”

“They should,” she retorts miserably.

The waiter, of course, comes over at that minute to take their meal order. Mary barely glances at the menu, and randomly picks out a bacon cheeseburger and a side salad.

“Girl after my own heart,” Jody comments, then orders something called a California burger and requests extra avocado. They pass their menus over, and are silent until the waiter has gone to the next table. Jody leans forward on the table, her hands crossed over her forearms. “This isn’t just about the boys hunting, is it.”

She stares into her wine glass. “Not all of it, no.” Jody doesn’t push, and after a second, Mary continues, “I don’t know who I am anymore.”

The sheriff nods, then says quietly, “It took me a long time to figure out who I was, where I fit in, after my son and husband..." She huffs a dark chuckle. “I threw myself into work, I joined a church, I tried to date—let me tell ya, that did _not_ go well, but when your blind date is the King of Hell—"

“ _Crowley?_ ”

“You’ve met him, huh? Real charmer, isn’t he?” Jody remarks dryly, and Mary can't believe how calm the other woman is. “Look, I can’t tell you who you are. I’m not sure I’ve entirely answered that for _myself_ , but I think I’m a lot better now than I was a few years ago.”

“So what’s the secret?” Mary asks bitterly, not really anticipating an answer.

“Keep trying. Keep asking that question. Find one reason to get up in the morning. And then maybe, find one more. And one more.” Jody smiles self-deprecatingly. “I never said I was a therapist. This could be shit advice for all I know.”

“Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure if I told a therapist the truth, I’d be locked away.”

“Touché. But you’re not alone in this, and I’m not just talking about Sam and Dean.” She shrugs. “I mean, I know you’ve met Donna—couldn’t get her shut up about you, to be honest, but her heart’s in the right place. And sure, we talk hunting, and being sheriffs, but that’s a _fraction_ of what we talk about. It’s ok to have other interests, other parts of your life.”     

Mary considers this as she takes a carrot stick. “Thanks, Jody.”

“No problem.”

_It’s ok to have other interests, other parts of your life._

Except that every time she’s tried, it’s ended horrifically. But maybe that was the problem: she’d thought they’d been mutually exclusive, the varied pieces of her life. Maybe there’s a way to put them all together, put _herself_ back together.

She just has to figure out what those pieces are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Petition for Mary to join Wayward Daughters.
> 
> Chapter title taken from [a song in BtVS 6x07](http://www.metrolyrics.com/something-to-sing-about-demo-lyrics-buffy-the-vampire>-slayer.htmlthe%20song%20in%20BtVs%206x7%20) \-- and yeah, no lie, Mary's arc is definitely inspired by BtVS S6.
> 
> Also, anyone know which Shakespeare play/character is paralleled/practically quoted in this? (I'm a huge nerd.)


	27. Fair is Foul, and Foul is Fair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently, I'm on a serious Macbeth kick...

Being on the run does not suit her, but she supposes she shouldn’t really be surprised. To be sure, she’d be disappointed if her son weren’t tracking her every move. Then again, it would have just been one more disappointment in a long string of them where he is concerned. Besides, she had had no delusions that their truce to stop the end of the world had been temporary at best, and her previous alliances have certainly not won her any favors with her son.

But he can have Hell.

There are better rewards, better thrones to claim.

Being on the run might not suit her, and humility is certainly not her strong suit, but it may be a means to an end. She’s tried her own coven, tried going outside the Grand Coven, but perhaps working from the inside might be more profitable. Besides, she has a plan. Granted, she might have to share some of the power at first, but if all goes well, that will be just one step on her journey up.

She may not be getting any younger, but she’s not getting older, either. She can be patient.

After all, since learning over a year ago of the Men of Letters and the havoc they wreaked on the Grand Coven, she’s had to be patient. Between translating _The Book of the Damned_ —while shackled!—and Lucifer and Amara and _God_ , it isn’t as if she’s had many opportunities to act on the knowledge.

But now that so many major players are off the chessboard, who’s left?

The Queen.

 

 

“Rowena.” It’s not a greeting.

“Maeven,” Rowena replies with a smile, falsely bright.

The room is vast, and still speaks of that old European grandeur, despite its relative emptiness. The vaulted ceilings are intricately carved, spells and wardings seamlessly entwined with a floral and vine motif. The floor is highly polished, and made of dark wood from trees whose descendants are probably too wide for a grown man to wrap his arms around their trunks. Opposite the double doors, a long table is set with seven high-backed chairs all on the same side, facing the entrance.

But only three are filled: the remaining High Priestesses of the Grand Coven.

Well, technically, four are still alive, but one is considerably furrier these days, last Rowena checked.

Maeven sits in the center, regal in a gown of deep red. Raven black locks are piled high on her head, and she regards Rowena coldly from eyes almost as dark as her hair. Her companions are just as unwelcoming. Zahra, to the right, is clad in a dark olive that would seem drab on anyone else; on her, it brings out the similar tones of her skin and makes her grey eyes nearly glow from beneath heavily kohled lids. Where Maeven and Zahra are dark, Aster is light. Her hair is nearly blindingly white, despite her youthful appearance, matching her pale skin and the ethereal light blue, almost white, robes she wears. Yet even her otherworldly lavender eyes brook no compassion for Rowena.

“Come crawling back to the Grand Coven, have you?” Zahra comments, the threat barely concealed under her words.

“Well,” Rowena says, indicating with her hands the dark room, “I’m not sure we can really call it _Grand_ anymore.”

“We?” Maeven arches a perfectly shaped brow.

“Yes, we,” Rowena affirms. “I’ve come to rejoin, help restore the Grand Coven to its former glory.”

“We already know you have _The Book of the Damned,_  Rowena,” Aster points out. “And after the Darkness, we would have thought you’d have learned your lesson meddling with such powers.”

Zahra leans forward on her throne, for that’s what it is, in truth. “Besides, even if we did trust you, that you wanted to ‘restore’ the Grand Coven, why would we believe you even _could?_ ”

“You doubt my power?” Rowena smirks.

“No, we doubt your loyalties and your schemes. Crowley, Lucifer, Amara, the _Mega_ Coven, the witches you dragged into your insane plan to smite the Darkness? Hardly the winning record,” Maeven retorts with supreme condescension.

Rowena smiles, cat-like. “Perhaps there were some...missteps, I’ll admit. But considering it was _I_ who created the soul-bomb Dean Winchester used, sacrificing himself, to defeat the Darkness—"

“Dean Winchester is alive,” Zahra cuts in.

Rowena pauses for a fraction of a second, before waving off the news as though it is unimportant. She can deal with that revelation another time. “I’m sure he’ll find a way to get himself killed again soon enough. Even so, the world has been saved, the Darkness is gone.”

“Why are you _here_ , Rowena?” Maeven’s impatience is harsh on her tongue.

“As I said, I wish to help you—us—restore the Grand Coven’s power.”

“We have power.”

“Not all of it,” Rowena replies, surveying the trio. “So much power, so many spells, so much knowledge, _stolen_ from us. It has been hundreds of years, and yet the Grand Coven has made no move to reclaim what is rightfully ours.”

The three High Priestesses look to each other, and it is Aster who speaks first. “You are referring to the Men of Letters.”

“Yes. And guess who knows where the wee Winchesters are?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE PLOT THICKENS. DUN DUN DUNNNNNNNNNNN.
> 
> Anyway, short chapter. That's why you're getting two at once. You're welcome. :)


	28. Fresh Starts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting two chapters at once -- make sure you didn't miss the previous one!

  

> EILEEN: Im here!
> 
> EILEEN: I think
> 
> EILEEN: Creepy old factory?
> 
> SAM: That’s us! Just a sec

The breeze raises little tornadoes of dust next to her truck as she waits outside the industrial looking door. They really weren’t kidding when they said it was a Bunker. After seeing the London complex, she’d expected more, but then again, this is a pretty convincing disguise. She’d bet that no one local has set foot here in decades, especially considering the detritus of concrete and rebar dotting the landscape around the factory, all waiting for an errant ankle to twist. She does notice, however, that the grass has been slightly trampled leading up to the embankment to the right of the Bunker door.

Finally, the door opens and Sam emerges, a grin on his face.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hi, Sam,” she smiles back, and steps forward to greet him with a hug. It’s brief, friendly, but _damn_ , he smells good. Not cologne or soap good, just naturally good. _Mildred’s a bad influence_ , she thinks wryly, schooling her features as best she can when they separate.

“How are you?” he signs, while saying the words out loud. The motions are a little awkward from unfamiliarity, but they’re correct and clear and obviously well-rehearsed.

Her mouth drops open in surprise, and she can’t even answer the question. “Have you been...have you been learning to sign?”

Sam runs a hand through his hair, sheepishly, and he raises a shoulder. “A little. I don’t know much yet.”

“I’m fine,” she finally signs back. “You?”

“Good,” he answers slowly. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me, too.”

He looks relieved, and Eileen can’t help but grin fondly at the idea that _he_ is worried. Stepping back, Sam holds the door open for her to pass through. As she passes by, she pauses and raises her hand to her chin. “Thank you.”

When she looks back to where she’s going, she stops again, taking in the sight of the Bunker. She doesn’t know why she’s so surprised, having seen the English Men of Letters headquarters. Maybe she’d just assumed that since this chapter is defunct, it wouldn’t be as impressive as one in working order. Clearly, she was wrong.

“Welcome to the American Chapter of the Men of Letters. People of Letters,” Sam amends, leading her down the stairs into a round room hosting a giant table with a map of the world on it. An old one, she notices, judging by some of the country names and boundaries. If she had to guess, it hasn’t been updated since just after World War II.

Eileen smirks. “They weren’t big on feminism, huh?”

“Not so much,” Sam agrees, and a hint of something sad flashes over his face.

“Sam?”

“Nothing. C’mon, I’ll show you around.”

In some ways, it’s clear that the other Men of Letters headquarters were built off the same model, even if the one in England has been updated over the years. Sam seems to take the most pride and feel most comfortable in the library than anywhere else, which doesn’t really surprise her. As they go through the Bunker, she shows him the signs for certain words and things they come across, and he practices them eagerly, not minding at all when she reaches out at one point to correct his hand placement.

Sam is awkward, however, when he shows her the dormitory area, particularly his room. It has the air of being recently straightened up, and while it’s clear that it’s lived in, it doesn’t look like it’s _owned_. The walls are bare and the bed is neatly made and there are stacks of boxes in the corner, but there are no _things_ , save for Sam’s laptop and a worn wooden box tucked next to the lamp on top of the dresser. It’s a little sad, but Eileen understands, never having had a place to call “home" and always fearing when she does, especially ever since Lillian died when she was sixteen; and even then, their homes had been rentals and motels, never staying more than a few months, never really settling. Crashing on Mildred’s couch a couple times is the closest she's come to having something remotely resembling a home base in _years._

But, she can’t resist throwing out a little teasing before their little tour moves on. “The bed seems small.” Sam manages to stutter out an “uh" and an “um" before Eileen throws him a bone and adds, as if that’s all she ever meant in the first place, “You know, because you’re so tall.”

“Right, yeah. It is kinda short,” he shrugs, trying for casual, and laughing a little before they duck out of the room and he closes the door.

The next stop on their tour is the kitchen where they find Dean and Cas, both of whom smile hugely (well, hugely for Cas, that is; Dean's expression is much broader) when they see her. They get up from the table, and Eileen doesn’t miss the shit-eating grin Dean gives Sam over her shoulder.

“Eileen!” he greets. “Good to see you.”

“You, too, Dean.”

“How are you?” he signs, slowly and unsurely. He glances over to Cas, who nods, assuring him he did it correctly.

Eileen laughs, amused and genuinely touched. “Did everyone learn?”

“Uh, if by ‘learned,’ you mean I asked Cas like twenty minutes ago when Sam said you were coming over, then yes, yes I did.” Dean gives a good-natured shrug, and Cas rolls his eyes.

Just like before, with Sam outside the Bunker, Eileen signs back, slowly, while also saying out loud, “I’m good. How are you?”

Dean shakes his head with self-deprecating amusement. “Yeah, I got nothing. That was all I know.”

“He’s fine,” Cas answers for him, also speaking out loud. “He’s not a very good student.”

“Dude, I’m an awesome student. And I’m good with my hands.” He waggles his eyebrows.

Sam grimaces from beside her. “Seriously, Dean?”

Dean cackles, and Eileen’s glad to see how relaxed they all seem, considering the circumstances under which she last saw them all, and she knows she only came in for the tail end of that saga.

“I’m sorry. They’re always like this,” Cas says silently with an air of resignation. He then continues, with a small smile in his eyes, “It’s good to see you again.”

“Wanna share with the class, Cas?” Dean taunts.

“He said he’s glad I’m here to relieve him of you two,” Eileen supplies with a smirk, then signs to Cas, “Same. You look good. Happier.”

Cas nods softly in response, while Dean turns to him and says, “Traitor.” He then looks to Sam, gestures to Eileen with his eyes, and adds with fake accusation, “ _You_ invited her.”

Sam grins. “Yeah, I did. Which means _we_ are going to go elsewhere.” Dean waggles his eyebrows again, which Sam ignores, and they leave the kitchen again. He pauses, just outside the door, then looks worriedly at Eileen. “I mean, if that’s ok with you.”

“Yeah, that’s ok with me,” she nods.

Slowly and deliberately, Sam signs, “Do you want to get dinner?”

“I’d love to,” she signs and says.

 

 

The restaurant isn’t particularly fancy, but it’s a good family-owned Italian place that’s friendly and comfortable. There isn’t a whole lot in the general vicinity of Lebanon, Kansas; they’re about a good thirty minute drive away, at least. The conversation has been mostly small talk up until now: Eileen tells Sam about the cursed objects case she was on, Sam talks about some of his road trip with his mother, who Eileen learns has gone to visit a friend, someone named Jody. She gets the sense that there’s more to the story about his travels other than hiking and going to tourist traps, and how it is having his mom back after thirty years, but she doesn’t pry; Sam will talk about it if and when he wants to share.

By the time they’ve ordered drinks—chianti for Eileen ( _when in Rome_ , she thinks), beer for Sam—Eileen’s worried they’ve run out of things to talk about. Sam seems to be thinking the same, and so Eileen finally confesses, “I’m not very good at this. Hunting and dating—don’t really go together that often.”

Sam’s shoulders relax and he huffs a laugh. “Yeah, no kidding. It’s, uh, been awhile since I’ve done, you know, this,” he says, gesturing with a hand to the table.

“Well,” Eileen says, but is interrupted when the waitress returns with their drinks and asks if they’re ready to order. They decide to skip an appetizer, and instead just order meals. Eileen orders the penne fra diavolo, thinking it’s been far too long since she’s had something other than diner food.

Sam looks at her conspiratorially. “If Dean asks, I ordered a salad.” Eileen’s not sure why that’s important, but agrees while he orders chicken picatta.

The waitress leaves, and Sam looks back to her. “Sorry. You were saying?”

“I was just thinking that, the first time we met, I tried to kill you because I thought you were a banshee. Then we traded tragic backstories and killed that banshee. And then the next time we saw each other, we were breaking you out of the Men of Letters. I think we got the usual awkward first date stuff out of the way already.”

Sam smiles, some of the tension rolling right off of him. “You _always_ threaten your dates with golden knives?”

“Well, not _always_. Just the ones I really like.”

He gives a crooked grin, sweet and shy.

By the time their meal comes, they barely pause talking to notice how it tastes.

(Ok, that’s a little bit of a lie: Eileen definitely makes sure she takes her leftovers with her and is already looking forward to having them for lunch tomorrow. Sam finishes his whole plate.)

 

 

“Fold.”

“Aw, c’mon, Cas. Live a little,” Dean chides, knocking shoulders with the angel.

“Dean, you know as well I do that statistically speaking, my hand has little chance—"

“Dude, you don’t _admit_ you’re counting cards.” Dean rolls his eyes, then tosses out a blue chip. It’s not cheap plastic, but painted ceramic from an old set someone in the Men of Letters had left behind. “Ten.”

Eileen studies her hand, then the faces of Sam and Dean, the only two left this round. Sam’s got a considerable pile of chips in front of him, but she thinks she and Dean are probably closer to tied in first place. Cas seems generally uninterested in playing, only doing it to humor the rest of them, and so his pile of chips is probably only slightly different from what he started with. Selfishly, Eileen can’t say she minds when Cas bows out of a round, since without cards or chips to handle, he easily provides translations for her whenever the conversation moves too quickly for her to follow their lips or if they forget to face her when they speak; she understands—it’s not natural or habit for them to do so, although they do try and apologize when they notice Cas beginning to sign more (until she’d stopped that; nothing worse than having people say they’re sorry over and over for just _talking_ ).

She has an ok hand: two pair, Jacks and sevens. Not a hand to write home about, but... Dean’s eyes flick to Sam’s, and seeing that, she makes up her mind. She tosses two chips out. “Raise five.”

They’re small stakes, all things considered, but this is a friendly game; bragging rights are more valuable than the money.

Sam doesn’t look at his hand. “Fold.”

Dean smirks, tosses in a chip, and nods to Eileen. She shows her hand.

“Dammit." He reveals a similar hand, but Jacks and fives. Eileen smiles and pulls the chips to her.

“Another round?” Sam asks, but pauses his shuffling of the deck and looks to Eileen’s right. She turns, and sees Mary Winchester at the door, leaning against the jamb with one hip, her arms crossed loosely, her eyes warm, but a little sad, watching the scene.

“Hey, Mom. How was Jody?” Dean asks.

“She’s good. Says hi.” Mary smiles to her, “And hi, Eileen.”

“Hi, good to see you again,” Eileen answers, carefully avoiding the name thing. ‘Mrs. Winchester’ seems weird to say, but she’s not sure she knows her well enough to call her ‘Mary.’

“Wanna join?” Sam asks, indicating with the cards.

“You can take my hand,” Cas offers.

Mary shakes her head, and pushes herself off of the doorjamb. “No, but thanks. I think I’m—"

Eileen misses the last part as Mary turns her head to the hallway, and she automatically turns to Cas, who signs that Mary is going to bed. She nods in gratitude at the translation. Mary looks back to the group, then says, and signs, “Good night.”

“Good night,” Sam, Eileen, and Cas answer, nearly in unison, while Dean looks like he’s muttering something. Sam and Cas chuckle at whatever it is that Dean said as Mary leaves, until Cas translates: “He said, ‘Jesus, did _everyone_ learn to sign?’”

“It’s ok, Dean,” Eileen reassures him. “Really. I’m just...amazed any of you learned at all.”

“Yeah, well, Cas is an angel, so that’s cheating. Sammy’s a nerd, so that makes sense. But I figured Mom’d have my back, not make me look like an ass.”

“I’ve been practicing with her,” Sam shrugs. Dean considers this, and Eileen thinks he’s going to make a comment, but instead, he just nods, and claps Sam on the shoulder as he gets up from the table. She assumes Dean says something to Cas because the angel gets up as well. Sam and Eileen follow suit, Sam stretching after sitting for so long.

Dean and Cas wish them good night, but before Cas leaves, Eileen catches him gently by the arm. “I’m guessing you told him?”

Cas nods, his eyes crinkling at the corners again, then points his chin in the direction of Sam, standing behind her. “Maybe you should, too?”

“Maybe,” she allows, not denying it, but thinking she and Sam have a long way to go before they reach what Dean and Cas have; just seeing the difference between the mourning, broken angel in Siobhán’s field with the relaxed and far more comfortable person (is that the right word?) in the kitchen tonight and by Dean’s side makes Eileen wonder how Sam never figured it out sooner.

“Good night, Eileen.”

“You too, Cas.”

When she turns back to the rest of the kitchen, she finds Sam looking at her oddly.

“Everything ok?”

“Yeah,” he says, snapping out of the moment, blinking his eyes. “It’s just…" He pauses. “You just seem like you fit in here. Really well.”

Eileen frowns. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No! No, not at all!” Sam assures her, his face brightening.

“So that look was...?”

He sighs, and sits at the table. Eileen takes the seat next to him, turning so their knees brush.

“Remember how you said it was good we were past the usual awkward first date stuff?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, it’s a good thing you didn’t say ‘what’s the worst that could happen?’” His smile is tight, and Eileen can see so many stories, many painful, behind his hazel eyes. He's waiting for the other shoe to drop, and she understands, far too well. She takes his hands in hers; they’re rough and calloused in many of the same ways she knows hers are: too many weapons, too many fights. Her hands, while not small, look absolutely tiny next to his. Maybe they’re a little scarred, but they’re strong.

“You don’t have to tell me, Sam, if you don’t want to. But I’m here if you do.” She lifts a shoulder and gives him a small smile.

Gently, Sam switches their hand positions so that his envelop hers. She doesn’t mind; she knows this isn’t about power or dominance or whatever other bullshit she’s seen time and again from guys—hunters or not. Control, maybe, but this isn’t Sam wanting to control _her_ , this is Sam needing to take control of himself, to have some small measure of control over the situation.

“I’m a real catch, huh?”

She shrugs. “Mildred already called dibs on Dean, and that’s never mind Cas. I’ve settled for worse.”

Sam chuckles. “Thanks.”

Tentatively, Sam lets go of her hands and brings one of his own up to her face. His fingers brush the back of her neck while his thumb caresses her cheek. He slowly pulls her face to his, not that she resists, and their lips meet. For a simple kiss, started so gently, there’s heat in it, and she deepens it, moving towards him as he does to her. He pulls back, and his pupils are blown wide. She can still taste him on her lips.

“We should, uh, take this slow. You know,” he says, breathless.

“Definitely,” she agrees, absently, and this time, they move together, his hand circling her waist, nearly lifting her off of her seat.

The only thing ‘slow’ is how long it seems to take to get to the bedroom.

 

 

She wakes to fingers softly tracing circles on her shoulder, and she smiles and burrows her face into his chest, tightening the arm she has thrown across his waist. Of all the ways to wake up in the morning, she’s gotta say, this isn’t a bad one. When she feels his voice rumble in his chest, she pulls herself up and looks to his face.

“Morning,” she smiles.

“Hey.” His fingers are still on her shoulder. “We should probably get up before Dean starts being an ass and knocks on the door.”

“Would he open it?”

“No, he’s not that much of a dick. Usually.”

She shrugs. “Then that’s your problem, not mine. Can’t hear him knock anyway.” She lowers her face to his, kissing him with a grin.

“That’s just mean,” Sam complains.

“It’s a cruel world,” she agrees with mock seriousness, then settles back down again in Sam’s arms. It doesn’t matter what time it is; it’s too early to get up.

 

 

Dean, surprisingly, doesn’t give them as much crap as they had expected when they finally emerge from the room long after breakfast is over. She wonders if that has more to do with the sidelong glances Cas keeps giving him or the fact that Mary just raises a stern eyebrow in her elder son’s direction. Thankfully, Eileen's awkwardness at seeing Sam’s _mother_ when it’s fairly obvious what they’ve been up to is probably equal to Sam’s own.

Eileen’s not sure if it’s better or worse when Mary leaves the kitchen after telling them pleasantly that there’s leftover pancakes and bacon saved for them.

 

 

As much as she enjoyed her visit to the Bunker, she’s ready to head out, get on the road again, by early afternoon. But she looks back fondly at the entrance to the Bunker as she stands by her truck with Sam.

“So, I’ll talk to you soon?” Sam asks.

“Yeah. Maybe we can Facetime, or Skype,” she suggests. “Can practice your ASL.”

“I’d like that. I’d like that a lot.”

“And I like you. I like you a lot.”

He looks at her in confusion, not understanding what she signed; she didn’t really intend him to. “What does that mean?”

“You’ll find out someday,” she teases, then lifts herself up on her toes to kiss him.

 

 

The next day takes her to a case in Idaho. For once, it was a straightforward case: a deceased elderly couple’s home was being destroyed, making way for a row of condominiums, and their spirits had risen to protect the house they had built together over fifty years ago. One inspector had gotten a concussion from a flying vase, and a contractor swore up and down to anyone who would listen that he’d been locked in the basement when the door suddenly shut of its own accord before tools from the husband’s workbench began attacking him.

Thankfully, burning both of their bones had solved the problem, and she’d had some help from the contractor who had actually needed less persuading than she’d anticipated; digging graves is much easier with an excavator, and it’s definitely an added bonus when there’s _two_ graves to unearth.

Still, there’d been some manual shoveling closer to the actual caskets, and so when Eileen returns to her motel room, she’s covered in dirt and sweat, and longing for a shower and to collapse on her bed.

She freezes when she opens the door, her hand immediately going to the gun tucked in her waistband.

“Hello, Eileen,” her intruder greets. “We have so much to talk about.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, so much less angst and pining than Dean and Cas.
> 
> Also, I hate to leave you on a cliffhanger, but I'm away for most of the weekend, so you probably won't get another chapter until Monday (maybe Sunday night).


	29. Mum's the Word

Coming home from dinner with Jody is bittersweet. Mary is grateful for the chance to talk to the sheriff, to have an open ear to confide in, and she hopes she can maybe take some of the other woman’s advice and encouragement with her. Stepping into the Bunker kitchen, though, tugs at her heartstrings all over again, in some ways that are more painful than others.

It takes a moment for any of them to notice she is there, and in a way, she’s relieved that they obviously feel safe enough and at home enough in the Bunker to let down their defenses. She’s also fairly certain that her dad or their dad would have had some choice words to say about their lack of attention.

She hadn’t known Eileen would be visiting, and she watches how Eileen’s eyes, constantly flicking between the group to follow the conversation, seem to linger on Sam a little longer, how they each exchange small smiles when they think no one else is looking. She’s happy for her youngest son, especially after seeing just how much pain he carries with him all the time.

Her eldest and the angel are sitting even closer together, as if magnetically drawn to each other. She knows they’re still a little unsure in their relationship, but tonight they are more relaxed together than she has ever seen them, a fact for which she feels guilty. Dean’s smiles are wide, and Cas poorly masks his fondness for Dean’s jabs and jokes with his scowling.

Her boys are happy, and loved, and healthy, and yet, she is still on the outside. As a mother, she knew that day would come, when her children wouldn’t need her, but she had expected to have years to adjust to the idea, to watch them grow and mature. She has missed so much, lost so much, and seeing it now is like a blessing and a curse.

After bidding them good night, she retreats to her bedroom, waiting for the troubled sleep to come.

Who would’ve thought that dreaming of Heaven would be a nightmare?

 

 

The morning dawns like every other morning: artificial light wakes her from her rest. She’d found the windowless bedroom unnerving at first, and it had been Sam to think of buying her one of the programmable night lights that gradually turns on, mimicking the rising sun.

Breakfast is a few members short today: Sam and Eileen have not yet made an appearance, despite the smells of pancakes and bacon wafting through the corridors; Mary makes the pancakes, Dean cooks up the bacon. It’s mostly quiet work, except for when Castiel makes a comment about Dean’s eating habits, to which Dean replies, “Yeah, well, bacon’s awesome and until your mojo can’t rescue me from a heart attack, I ain’t worried.”

Mary smiles to herself at this, thinking of John once trying to argue that his Marine training could overcompensate for junk food, until Mary had pointed out that he was an _ex-_ Marine, and while being a mechanic is certainly more physical than sitting at a desk, it’s hardly the same as being in the armed forces. There’d been quite a bit of grumbling at that.

At this thought, she pauses mid-pour of pancake batter onto an electric counter-top skillet, and sets down the bowl. She looks over to them, Cas not quite hovering by Dean at the stove, Dean not seeming to mind the closeness, and she realizes what she’s been missing the whole time. True, Castiel is an angel, and she’s not sure she’ll ever quite be used to that, but she sees them and she sees herself and John in that moment. Maybe it’s not _normal_ , but when has this life ever been? They’re in an underground kitchen that once belonged to a supernatural secret society, after all; this moment is as normal as it will ever be. And maybe _normal_ isn't as important as other things.

The rest of the day passes peacefully. Eileen leaves in the early afternoon, and Sam comes to Mary later to continue their nightly ASL practice, saying that Eileen was impressed with what he’s learned so far, even if there’s still a lot more to know. They practice for an hour or so, and Mary can see Sam’s movements seem far more natural than hers. He reminds her that he’s been learning for a lot longer, and had studied it some in college, but she’s not upset at her own failings in this matter, just proud of her son’s accomplishments and why he is doing this.

That night, the dreams stay at bay.

 

 

“Dude, if you didn’t iron my shirts _with beer_ , I wouldn’t _have_ to go shopping again.”

“All right, fine. Could use a new suit, too. Ripped out a knee during that case in Dallas.”

Mary hears Sam laugh from the other side of the library; she’s reading in a chair tucked in a corner, behind a shelf, and she’s not even sure they know she’s there.

“She _tossed_ you so hard—"

“You want me to bring up Missoula?”

"...no. You’re a dick.”

“It’s been said.” Dean’s chair scrapes back from the table. “Should see if Cas wants to come.”

“Aww, wanna see if your boyfr—"

“Sammy, so help me, if you finish that sentence, I will kill you.” Mary bites the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. “No, I was thinking if Cas is going on hunts with us, he can’t wear the same damn suit all the time. People’ll notice if we got a case that goes for a couple days. I was thinking _practically_.”

“Uh huh.”

“Whatever. CAS!”

“You could just go _find_ him..."

“Ruining your precious eardrums is more fun. CAS! WHERE ARE YOU, MAN?”

“I’m right here, Dean.” Cas’ footsteps are light on the hardwood floor, and his voice is a mix of resignation and amusement.

“Sweet. We’re going shopping. Princess Samantha needs more clothes, and—"

“ _You’re_ the one who wants to do _Pretty Woman_ with _Cas_ —"

“First of all, fuck you. Second of all, no. Third of all, I don’t even wanna know why you know that movie—"

“Obviously, you do, too.”

“Dean. Sam. Enough. Are we going or not? I have other things I could be doing than listen to you argue.”

“Dude, if you haven’t figured out that me n’ Sam pull this shit all the time, it’s gonna be a long road for you.”

“You two hash this out. I’m gonna find Mom, see if she wants to come.” Mary can hear Sam’s chair on the floor, and she decides it’s time to alert them to her presence.

“I’m right here,” she pipes up from her corner, just as Sam’s tall frame comes into view. “You guys go, I’m good here.” She holds up the copy of _A Clash of Kings_ that Sam had lent her; after hearing them talk about the TV show, and after seeing an episode or two, Sam had convinced her to read the books as well. She'd devoured the first one, and she's making good progress on the second.

Sam grins when he sees the reason. “Where are you in it?”

“Arya just got to Harrenhal.”

“Nice. Ok, so we’ll be back in a few hours. You got your phone?”

Mary rolls her eyes, but pulls out the small grey phone from her pocket and replies amusedly, “Yes, I have my phone. I can take care of myself, you know.”

Sam shrugs, a little sheepishly. “I know. See you later.”

“Have fun. Try not to kill Dean.”

This time it’s Sam’s turn to roll his eyes. “No promises.”

 

 

She reads for a while longer, but then retreats to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea. However, a sound from further down the hall, in the direction of the archives, draws her attention. Abandoning the tea, she ducks into the dormitory hall quickly, grabbing her gun from the nightstand drawer. Holding the weapon with both hands, finger off the trigger, muzzle pointed towards the ground before her, she carefully approaches the sound.

The room is packed with dusty shelves, each laden with boxes of unknown treasures and terrors. The first row is empty, and so Mary goes to the next, raising her gun immediately once she sees the flash of red hair through the stacks.

“Who the hell are you?”

The woman is dressed in a form fitting silvery-black gown, her eyes gleam under lids with heavy cat-like makeup, and her red hair frames her sharp features with thick curls. She holds up two hands, palms to Mary.

“Just a friend,” she answers, and Mary is fairly certain the accent is Scottish. “And who might _you_ be?”

“The one who’s got a gun pointed at you wondering what the hell you’re doing here.”

The woman studies her for a moment, then smiles with a smugness that makes Mary further doubt the woman’s claims of friendship. “Another Winchester, perhaps?” A pause, and the smile widens even further. “You’re Sam and Dean’s mother, aren’t you? Yes, I can see it: more Dean than Sam, but... Call it a mother's instinct, but I'm sure of it."

“Who. Are. You.”

She takes a step closer to Mary, seemingly unperturbed by the weapon pointed at her. She gestures to herself with a hand, and asks with mock offense, “Who am I? I’m hurt you don’t know. After all, our sons are so _infuriatingly_ close, and we did all save the world together.”

“Rowena,” Mary says, the name clicking home, and immediately she tries to remember everything she’s heard about the King of Hell’s mother, but other than the fact that she’s a witch and the demon hates her, she knows very little.  

“Ah, so you _have_ heard of me,” Rowena trills.

“Which means I know what you are. Why you’re here.”

“Do you now?” Rowena gestures to the room at large. “Do you know how much of this was _stolen_ , locked away? By men like your sons?”

“Don’t pull the girl power card on me,” Mary retorts. “You’re a witch, and you’re not ‘just a friend.’”

“Then how did I get in so easily?” Rowena counters. “Perhaps it’s because I’ve been invited here before, treated as an ally. Surely your wee boys would have mentioned that.”

“So you waited until they were gone to break in?”

Rowena grins. “Well, if I had known they’d have left their mummy at home to take care of them... Did I interrupt your housekeeping? Making them a pie, were you?”

Mary flicks the safety off of the gun. “I’ve been hunting almost as long as I’ve known how to shoot. And I’m a damn good shot.”

“Another career woman,” Rowena nods approvingly. “So, tell me, mother to mother, have your sons been as much of a disappointment as mine? Releasing Amara, the Mark of Cain, Lucifer..."

Mary schools her face from reacting, not wanting to give the witch an inch. She knows some of what her sons have been through, the role they’ve played in these events, and she knows how heavily their guilt rests on them. She also knows how much good they’ve done, and no two-bit witch is going to take that away from them.

Rowena stops her taunts, then eyes the gun. “You know that won’t kill me, right?”

“Maybe not, but I’m betting it’ll still hurt like hell.”

The witch smirks. “Not as much as this will.” She holds out her hands and begins to chant in something that sounds Gaelic, greenish white light emitting from her palms. Immediately, Mary feels her knees buckle and her body shake...

Her vision starts to go purple and drift out...

Her mind screams with pain, though her mouth lets out no sound...

Before she collapses to the ground, she steadies her hand as best she can, and pulls the trigger...

The words “Bloody hell!” are the last she hears as her body writhes and she slips into the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, I haven't forgotten about Eileen. :)
> 
> And yes, now there are two cliffhangers. I'm evil.


	30. Recruitment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter and this chapter are both kinda short, so you get two in one day. Lucky you!
> 
> (Make sure you didn't miss the previous one!)

The motel room is cheap, but relatively clean: no odd stains in unpleasant places, no off-putting smells. The duvet is a horrid geometric pattern in oranges and browns, and the carpet is a dark taupe that bears evidence of being tread upon by many unnamed feet.

She settles into a chair and its moulded plastic creaks. She frowns at the sound, then crosses one leg over the other, tapping her fingers on her knee. She hopes she won’t have to wait long, but she does prefer this to barging in unannounced. Such entrances can be dreadfully messy and hostile. Here, she can wait patiently, assume a position of calm authority, and hope to control the situation. It did work before, after all.

The minutes tick by slowly, and she fiddles with the notebook and file on the table. Eventually, a key turns in the lock, and she sits up straighter, squarely facing the door. It opens to reveal Eileen Leahy, who wastes no time drawing a weapon, but she doesn’t retaliate. Instead, she just greets the hunter, and indicates with a hand to the empty chair at the table.

“Hello, Eileen. We have so much to talk about.”

“What are you doing here, Toni?” Eileen asks, not lowering the weapon completely.

“Please, Eileen. I’m not here to start a fight. We've worked together before. Can't we talk like rational people?”

The hunter’s eyes narrow. “You’re armed. Pro tip: a fitted jacket like that isn’t good for a concealed carry.”

Toni refrains from scowling, thinking of Sam’s disparaging remarks about her footwear. She hates to admit that she conceded that point, and she is wearing something more sensible this time, but she could really do with less commentary about her wardrobe choices. Instead, she counters, “Well, considering the welcome I’ve received so far, can you blame me?”

“You broke into _my_ motel room.”

“To talk.” Carefully, she pulls out the gun from the holster under her jacket with just her thumb and finger, making it obvious she has no intention of using the weapon. “I put down my gun, you put down yours, and we can speak civilly.”

Eileen considers, then nods and puts her gun on the dresser that doubles as a TV stand. Toni follows suit, tossing her gun onto the bed just out of reach; she doesn’t doubt, however, that Eileen is probably further armed with a knife or some other weapon.

“What do you want?” Eileen asks once she’s taken the other chair.

Toni pushes the file towards the hunter. “To recruit you. We’ve decided to reinstate the American Chapter of the Men of Letters, under our supervision, of course.”

Eileen doesn’t take the file, and her hands remain in her lap. “I thought the Men of Letters wanted nothing to do with us hunters. You disapprove of us. You kidnapped Sam, locked him up.”

“Well, I can’t say I approve of your methods, but I’ve managed to convince the old men that maybe our approach to curbing the Winchesters and the likes of you was perhaps flawed.”

“How’s the coup going?” Eileen asks sarcastically.

Toni pauses, considering how best to answer this for a second. In truth, it has been difficult, and she’s honestly surprised she’s still alive and has made any headway. Harris Blackbourne is well-entrenched, and a fair number of the Elders Council had of course supported him, but it turns out that her generation, the millennials, as it were, has grown tired of being shut down by the traditions and the assumptions that the older generations know best. She’d found surprising support within the Chapter, and collectively, they’ve forced the Council’s hand into listening to them. Granted, she’s had to tamp down some of the more radical and progressive factions: less "vive la revolution", more "let's move into the 21st century like responsible adults and scholars".

She may have also let it slip that Harris has effectively been using her son and his medical care as a hostage to keep her in line, which has not endeared him to anyone in the chapter, except for a few of the Elders who are of the same ilk as Blackbourne.

“Slow, but that’s to be expected from an organization that’s so firmly rooted in the past.”

“I thought you liked your traditions.”

“Oh, I do, and truthfully, I would prefer not to get involved with this project at all—”

“This isn’t exactly enticing me to join.”

Toni carries on as if Eileen hasn’t said anything. "—but I’ve come to recognize that maybe the best way of keeping the world from burning, so we can _keep_ those traditions and to our studies, is to not just let the hunters have free rein over this continent.”   

Eileen crosses her arms. “So why me?”

“I’ve done my research, Eileen. I know your history. You’re a good hunter, you’re smart, you don’t just go in, guns blazing. And I know you have a connection with the Winchesters, particularly Sam, especially of late. You might be able to exert some influence over them.”

The hunter sits up. “How do you know that?”

With a half-smile, Toni reaches forward and flips open the folder. On top is a security camera photo of Sam and Eileen in the parking lot of an Italian restaurant in Kansas. “You didn’t think that I just _let_ you go and escape in England, and then never followed up? I’ve put _years_ into my research of the Winchesters, what they’ve done, the trouble they’ve caused. Just because our first strategy didn’t work doesn’t mean I abandoned the project.”

Eileen leans forwards, giving her a critical eye. “So you’re telling me that you want me to start up the Men of Letters again, report back to _you_ , and somehow control Sam and Dean.”

Toni smiles at the hunter’s unconscious slip. There’d been rumours that the elder Winchester’s demise had been exaggerated, but this confirms it. But, she doesn’t acknowledge it, and instead nudges the file again towards Eileen. “You American hunters are always so concerned with what’s going on here in the States, but you never consider what’s going on in the world at large, not until you step into something that threatens the whole bloody planet. Think about it: with our resources, our support, our training, we could _prevent_ another Apocalypse instead of simply trying to _stop_ one in progress or one that someone accidentally _started_. So many more lives could be saved. Do you even know all that the Winchesters have done?”

The hunter’s eyes are hard. “Sam and Dean are good people.”

“They’re reckless and so co-dependent that they’ve endangered the world again and again. And considering Dean is in fact alive, it’s probably best our plan to bring Sam to justice failed. Who knows what damage Dean would have caused trying to get his brother back.” She pauses and settles back in her chair. “We’re not the enemy, Eileen, despite what you might think. Look at the file. There are worse things out there than the spirits and vampires you hunt.”

Reluctantly, Eileen takes the folder, and Toni knows she’s still far from winning over the hunter. But, baby steps. Sam Winchester’s escape, and Toni's role in it, had been a difficult one to explain away, and she knows she must secure this new plan in order to keep the tenuous hold she currently has over the Chapter and the Council. Looking around the room, however, she ardently hopes that she can delegate others to the task of reinstating the American Chapter; she’d rather not have to move herself, or her son, here.

“What’s this?” Eileen asks, pulling out a series of pictures. Four women are featured throughout the series, each elegantly dressed.

“The Grand Coven of Witches,” Toni remarks. “Three of them are High Priestesses. The other, we’re not entirely sure, but we believe she might be Rowena, a very powerful witch with connections to Hell. And the Winchesters.”

“With the Winchesters?” Eileen frowns.

“Oh yes. Your dear sweet Winchesters have made several odd bedfellows over the years.”

The hunter doesn’t respond to that, and instead studies the report accompanying the photos. “These were taken in Glasgow?”

“Yes, outside what we believe is their headquarters. All except this one.” Toni reaches forward and draws out one of just Rowena. The witch is in sunglasses, and emerging from an expensive limo. “This one was taken just outside Glasgow Airport.”

There’s something calculating in Eileen’s eyes, and she looks to Toni sharply. “Where was she heading?”

“America. Possibly to Kansas. We lost track of her at Logan Airport, but considering what a nightmare that place is..."

Eileen snaps the folder closed and stands up. “We have to go.”

“What do you mean?”

“Kansas? Sam and Dean need to know.” She pulls out her phone from a pocket.

“Eileen, this is exactly what I mean,” Toni protests, standing as well. “The Winchesters get themselves caught up in things they don’t understand, with less than desirable allies, and they drag good people down with—"

The breath is knocked out of her as her back thuds against the motel wall. Eileen curls a fist into the lapels of her jacket, and Toni purses her lips, glaring back at the hunter.

“I don’t care what you think about the Winchesters and who you think they’re friends with,” Eileen glowers. “If she’s headed to Kansas, it’s not going to be for anything good, whether she’s on their side or not. You want to stop bad things from happening in the world? This is where you start. Not just sitting there with your files and books.”

“If that’s all that you think we do—"

“I’m done talking with you, Toni. I’m a _hunter_. I’m going to Kansas. You can come if you want. Otherwise, you can get the hell out of here.”

Toni reaches up, pries Eileen’s hand off of her, and the hunter steps back. “I’d hoped you’d have a little more respect for a more diplomatic approach.”

“Oh, I do. That’s why I’m giving you the option to come with me. You can see what it’s really like, working with hunters, on the front lines.” Eileen gives her a doubtful once-over. “If you think you can keep up.”

It’s a cheap shot, and Toni knows it, but she can also hear, echoed back over the years, all the people who have doubted her before, never mind all the doubts her colleagues have of her ability to do this job, to bring the Winchesters and the Americans back into the fold. She pulls at her jacket, adjusting it and smoothing it down from the assault. This is a terrible idea, she thinks, charging into Kansas on just the glimmer of information they have, with just the assumption of the witch’s destination, but, if she wants to convince Eileen to join her, and wants to gain any sort of trust within the hunting community here, she might have to resign herself to compromise on this.

With as little disdain as she can muster, she squares her shoulders, looks the hunter in the eye, and says, “If we do this, we work _together_. I’m not taking orders from you.”

Eileen reaches to the bed, and gives Toni back the gun, butt first. “Fine. I've never been good at listening to orders, anyway,” she smirks.

Toni takes the gun, tucks it back into its holster, and regards the hunter coolly. "Do you even have a plan?"

Eileen just cocks an eyebrow, shrugs, and begins collecting her things with the swiftness of one used to making quick getaways. Duffel bag on her shoulder, the hunter turns back to Toni. "Not yet, no."

"Typical."

Toni had expected Eileen to get angry at that, and she'll admit it was a petty remark, aimed to get the hunter's hackles up. Instead, however, Eileen just snorts derisively. "We got past _your_ defenses, got the drop on you in your own home. Not bad for a hunter, huh? I like my chances." 

And with that, the hunter exits the room, leaving Toni with no response to that but to follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to get a dig in at Logan Airport. But, Boston, you know I love ya!


	31. Seeing Red

There’s something incredibly familiar and entirely new in going to the store with Dean and Cas. On the one hand, Sam recognizes that it’s different than just him and Dean, the two of them against the world, and there’s a part of him that thinks he’ll always miss that. But he knows better now than to say anything, he knows he’s hurt his brother in the past for making him choose between family and friends. Benny, Cas...hell, Sam’d even thrown Amara in Dean’s face, even though he’d _known_ Dean didn’t want that, didn’t want her. Not that Dean’s a saint; Sam doesn’t think either of them will ever get past the Amelia fiasco, for instance. Or Amy.

But if there’s anything the past year has taught them, it's that what they’ve done in the past needs to change. They _can’t_ be Dean and Sam, just the two of them against the world. Having Mom back has just cemented that. With Dad, it hadn’t been an equal trio; it had still been the brothers, joined together, trying to survive Winchester Parenting™ and a life on the road, no friends, no other family. With Mom, they’ve had to redefine themselves, how they fit with each other. Even so, it’s been a little awkward, and at the end of the day, she’s their mother, not their best friend.

Cas, though...

Cas, despite being an _angel_ , is more their peer, and not just because of his and Dean’s relationship. Cas is their family, Sam’s friend and other brother. Sam smiles to himself when he remembers Cas saying, years ago, that he wanted to be a hunter and that he’d be their third wheel. Dean had tried to explain that wasn’t a good thing, but Cas had reasonably countered that a third wheel adds greater stability, completely missing the idiomatic connotations of the phrase. If anything, _Sam_ would be the third wheel now, idiomatically speaking, but he’s surprised to find he doesn’t feel that way at all. Maybe it’s because Sam has his own someone now (maybe, sorta...things with Eileen are very _new_ , but he’s hoping, maybe, just maybe…). More likely, it’s because Cas fits with them. They work as a team, as equals; nothing has really changed—other than some ribbing Sam gives Dean just to annoy the shit out of him (Sam’s really not looking forward to the day Dean gets over his insecurities and starts making things awkward for him by being gross with Cas, but he knows his brother, and he knows that day will come).

And so, suit shopping feels the most like a normal day for them than anything they’ve had in a long, long time. And it’s also far less _Pretty Woman_ than Sam had expected. Ok, maybe he hadn’t _quite_ expected that, but he’d forgotten just how pissy the two of them can get (and really, he shouldn’t have, considering it had taken some convincing in the car to get Cas to agree that he even needed another suit: “What if you ruin the suit you got on?” “My Grace can repair it, you know this.” “And what if your Grace ain’t running hot?” “ _Fine_.”). He’d also forgotten that the Winchesters don’t shop, they buy. In, out, end of story (although, Sam has noticed that his brother does pick nicer and more tailored suits ever since his jaunt to 1944, even if Dean would deny it to his dying breath).

Almost as soon as they get inside the store, which is over an hour’s drive from the Bunker, Dean practically assaults Cas, yanking the back of the collar of his shirt down to check the tag. Cas shucks him off, looking like he’d very much like to unleash the power of Heaven in this unsuspecting menswear store, while Dean, completely unperturbed and probably too used to that look, says, “My jeans, they fit you 'round the waist, right? So, we’ll just grab some pants that are a little shorter—"

“This isn’t the first time I’ve ever bought clothing, Dean,” Cas grinds out as Sam tries not to imagine the situation in which Dean and Cas were apparently sharing clothes, while he simultaneously contemplates how to effectively add that to his blackmail arsenal and feels relieved that Dean hadn't felt the need to check _that_ tag. “I am capable of making my own selections and finding my own size.”

Dean is taken aback by that, jaw hanging open, while Cas storms away into the racks of clothing. Sam just chuckles until he gets a threatening glare from his brother, and so he moves off towards the “Big and Tall" section (a name he _hates_ , but c’est la vie; at least if Dean’s preoccupied with Cas, he won’t have time to poke fun at Sam having to shop in the “Sasquatch section").

Shopping (buying) Winchester-style is efficient, with minimal trying on beyond “oh yeah, that fits and I don’t look stupid". The only snafu they hit is when Dean sees that Cas has apparently picked a navy blue suit that looks like the clone of what he’s got on.

“Defeats the _point_ , Cas.”

“I _like_ this suit.”

Dean just rolls his eyes and stomps off to grab the same suit but in dark charcoal, along with a solid blue tie. He shoves the clothing into Cas’ hands and grumbles something about “variety,” and then they’re off to the registers and back in the Impala.

Sam wisely makes no comment about Dean’s tie choice.

They stop for a late lunch/early dinner, during which Cas pretends to drink a cup of coffee, Dean scowls while Sam gets Cas to agree to go jogging with him, Dean and Sam debate which of the three real  _Indiana Jones_ movies is best (Dean goes with _Raiders_ , while Sam says  _Last Crusade_ , which Dean nearly concedes on, on account of Connery; both agree that the screechy chick in  _Temple of Doom_ kind of ruins the whole thing), and Dean and Cas don’t fool anyone by only keeping one hand each above the table.

All in all, Sam thinks, as he leans back into the familiar leather of the Impala’s passenger seat, this was a good day. He could get used to this.

He should have known better than to jinx it.

 

 

The first clue when they pull up that something is wrong is the Bunker door, slightly ajar. The second is the trail of blood stopping abruptly in the dirt at a set of fresh tire tracks. But that last detail barely registers with them when they see the blood, and they sprint inside.

“MOM!” Sam and Dean both bellow, frantic, into the cavernous Bunker.

As Dean’s eyes track the blood, Sam hears him mutter, “No no not again,” and Sam realizes absently, in the small corner of his mind that isn’t freaking the fuck out or shutting down into hunter mode, that this is exactly what Dean must have come home to when Sam was stuck in England.

They follow the blood, past the kitchens and down to the archives, where they can hear _something_ moving. They each draw their weapons—guns for Dean and Sam, angel blade for Cas—and approach, emotions telling them to rush forward, training telling them to be cautious.

“Mom,” Dean croaks out from the front, and he ducks forward to the ground. Over his shoulder, Sam can now see Mary, writhing on the ground, foam and spittle at her mouth, blood from her nose, a dark purple bruise forming below her eye. A gun is by her right hand, and the blood trail they’ve followed appears to have started from a place a few feet beyond her. Dean is trying to still her, and Sam rushes to her, cupping a hand under her head and neck to keep her from hitting her head anymore on the hard concrete floor.

“Seizure?” Sam asks, as clinically as possible, despite the fear clawing up from his gut.

“No,” Cas says from behind them.

“Cas!” Dean barks at him, even though the angel is already stepping forward; he gently puts two fingers to her forehead, and instantly she stills and bruises, blood, and saliva disappear.

But she doesn’t wake up.

In fact, her eyes continue to roll back in her head so they can only see the whites.

“Cas, what the hell...fix her, man!”

“I can’t, Dean,” he confesses gravely. “She’s been hit by some sort of spell. I can only alleviate the symptoms. She’s essentially in an induced coma.”

“You put her in a fucking _coma_?”

“Dean,” Sam tries, rationally, even if his brain is yelling at him _no not again fix this Cas someone fix this._ “They do this in hospitals.”

“We ain’t a damn hospital!”

Tiredly, Cas explains, “No, but this is the best I can do for now.”

His face is pale, his voice wavers, and Dean looks torn between holding Mom around the shoulders and noticing that Cas’ use of Grace has put him in danger of falling over where he stands. Sam gives Dean a nod, and he takes the majority of Mary’s weight, lifting her into a bridal carry. Dean takes Cas by the elbow, steadying him.

They settle Mary on her bed, and Dean asks, in barely a whisper, “Is she in pain?”

“I...I don’t know,” Cas admits, and sinks into a chair near the dresser.

“Fuck this,” Dean growls out, and Sam is inclined to agree.

“We gotta figure out who did this,” Sam says, unnecessarily, but finding the need to say _something_.

“We _know_ who did this, Sammy!” Dean half-shouts, pulling out his phone and stepping into the hall. “Who the fuck else knows how to get in here and would hit Mom with magic?”

“Who’re you calling?” he asks, even if he suspects the answer.

“Crowley.”

“You think he had something to do with this?” Sure, Crowley’s petty, but Sam can’t figure out why the demon would be teaming up with his mother to come after them. Weirdly, he thinks Crowley would rather team up with _them_ to find Rowena.

“Don’t know, but I fucking bet he at least knows where to find the bitch,” Dean answers as he calls the King of Hell, and puts it on speakerphone.

“Squirrel! To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Dean’s posture tightens, as it always does when Crowley is involved, and he snaps out, “Rowena. You know where she is?”

“What, no small talk? No, ‘hello, Crowley, how are you?’”

“Crowley,” Sam adds, frustration making his voice rough, “quit dicking around. Do you know where she is or not?”

“Ah, Moose. Never one without the other. Might I ask, why you are so determined to find my mother? If it’s to kill her, I can’t say I’m opposed to the plan, but I'd like a chance to participate.”

“We need her.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line, and then, the call cuts out.

“Sonofa—"

“Bitch, yes, you’re right,” Crowley finishes for Dean, and the brothers spin to find the demon practically lurking in the dim hallway, impeccably dressed as always with his black suit and dark tie. “Now, what could you possibly want with my dear sweet mother?”

Sam’s jaw clenches, as does Dean’s, but Crowley doesn’t seem to need an answer; he steps forward, peers into the bedroom and gives a knowing smirk.

“My guess is you’ve got your goons tracking her,” Dean says. His voice is steady, challenging, but Sam can hear the notes of fear and worry just beneath. “We need her. Reverse the spell.”

“Unfortunately for you,” Crowley says, hands in his pockets, “she got wise to my efforts to keep tabs on her after her journey back to the homeland. She’s warded herself somehow. But, she’s hardly one for subtlety. She’ll surface again, and when she does, I’ll take her out myself.”

“That doesn’t help us now,” Sam points out.

“No, it doesn’t. Lucky you have me, eh?” Stepping into the room, Crowley is immediately confronted with approximately six feet of angry angel. “Castiel, love, let’s stop the posturing. Bygones, et cetera.”

“Let him through,” Dean nods.

Cas gives Dean a sharp look, but Dean doesn’t budge, and whatever Cas reads in his expression makes him deflate, minutely, and allow the demon to pass. Crowley approaches the bed and Mary’s loose, supine form. No longer hunched in on herself, shaking, Mary could almost be mistaken for being asleep, except for her eyes, still rolled up, lids fluttering.

Sam doesn’t even want to know how long she’d been like that, in the archive room, before they’d gotten home. What if they hadn’t stopped to eat? What if they’d shopped quicker, or hadn’t gone at all?

“Gaelic spell, at a guess,” Crowley announces after a tense moment.

“How do you know?” Sam asks.

The demon shrugs, taking a notebook from Mary’s bedside table and a pen. “I know my mother’s style. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen this,” he explains, scribbling something on the paper. He hands it over to Sam, who sees what looks like a spell, in Gaelic, just as Crowley had said. “ _Don’t_ say it out loud. Not that I think you have the juice to power it, but you Winchesters have surprised me before.”

“We don’t need the _spell_ , Crowley,” Dean growls through his teeth. “We need Rowena or a cure.”

“Hello, demon,” Crowley reminds them, gesturing to himself. “Cures and saving people aren’t my deal. But you’re clever—well, Moose is, at least—I’m sure that’s enough to get you started. Good luck.”

And with a snap, Crowley disappears from the room.

“SONOFABITCH!” Dean roars.

“Dean, he’s right,” Cas speaks up from the wall against which he is leaning. “We might be able to find a cure, based on the spell.”

“Reverse engineer it,” Sam nods, not even having the energy to question Crowley’s motives or this sudden willingness to help or how it’ll come back to bite them in the ass someday.

“Fuck.” Dean runs a hand over his face, and takes a steadying breath. “Fine, you and Cas hit the books, I’m gonna hunt down Rowena.”

“Dean, Crowley said she’s gone to ground. He’s already got demons looking for her. What more can we do? You running around the country without a clue isn’t going to help,” Sam fires back.

Looking like he’s about to punch something or someone, Dean clenches and unclenches his hands, but he finally nods in agreement, and starts to leave the room. Sam follows.

Cas pushes himself up off the wall just after the brothers have stepped back into the hallway. “I should stay with your mother.”

Dean pauses, blinks, and turns, momentarily distracted. “What? Why?”

“My Grace. I don’t know how long it will keep her under. I may have to try again.”

Another silent conversation passes between them, and Dean reaches out a hand to Cas’ shoulder. “Can you?” he asks, not in challenge, but out of soft concern.

“I must.”

“Not if it’s gonna kill you, Cas. We ain’t doing this shit again.”

Sam doesn’t wait for Cas’ reply, feeling as though this conversation is too private for his ears, and not wanting to contemplate what Dean would do if Cas hurt or killed himself trying to help their mother. Instead, he heads to the library, going directly to the section on spells and curses, grabbing likely looking books from the shelves and dumping them on the tables before going to the sections on Gaelic and Celtic lore. Just as he’s setting down the last stack, his phone vibrates in his pocket with a text notification. 

> EILEEN: WITCH ON WAY TO BUNKER
> 
> EILEEN: ANSWER THE PHONE

His stomach plummets, realizing that Eileen has somehow been caught up in all of this shit, and then frowns when the phone rings—the normal calling system, not Facetime or Skype. Hesitantly, he slides his thumb on the green icon and puts the phone to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Sam,” a sickeningly familiar and almost _cheerful_ voice greets.

“Toni?” It takes him a second to process this, then he grates out, “What the fuck are you doing here, Toni? Where’s Eileen?”

“She’s as safe and sound as can be hurtling down the road in this rattletrap of a vehicle.” There’s a pause, and then a quieter, “Say hello.”

“Sam!” Eileen’s says into the phone from a distance. “I’m ok. We’re on our way to Kansas.”

Sam pinches the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes, wishing he could _say_ something to Eileen, but he can’t, and the moment passes anyway when Toni’s voice returns.

“What are you doing, Toni?”

“Apparently saving your hides from whatever mess you’ve created for yourselves again. Eileen seems to think that your friend, Rowena, may be on her way to harm you. _I’m_ wondering what deal you plan on striking with her—"

Sam can’t believe this. He can’t fucking believe it. The Men of Letters _knew_ Rowena was on the move, to them, and they once again did nothing, except drag Eileen into this.

“Rowena’s not our friend, and unless you coming here is going to help us save...someone...she attacked or you’re going to hunt her down, stay the fuck away, Toni. You can go back to your books.”

There’s a brief silence on the other end. “She was already there?”

“Yes.”

“We’re on our way. Should be there in two hours.”

A soft beep signals the end of the call, and Sam doesn’t even know what to do with this information. Dean enters the library, alone, looking distraught; Sam assumes Cas is still with their mom.

“What do we got?” Dean asks, running a hand through his hair, trying to calm himself, and nodding to the pile of books. Sam just stands there, phone still in his hand. “Sammy?”

“Eileen’s on her way.”

Dean gives him a hard look. “Sammy, don’t get me wrong, I like Eileen and she’s a good hunter, but you calling in your girlfriend right now—"

“No, she was already on her way. Already knew Rowena was coming,” he says woodenly.

“How the fuck did she know?”

“Toni. Toni Bevell.”

“The British bitch who kidnapped you?”

“Yeah.” Before Dean can comment, Sam adds, “It sounds like they want to help. Eileen definitely does, maybe Toni does, too.”

He’s not sure he believes Toni’s intentions, but he wonders if they can somehow get her on their side, or at least coerce into using her contacts to help them find a counterspell.

Dean shakes his head. “I can’t even deal with this shit. Cas is acting like a goddamn martyr again, Mom’s in a fucking coma, and now you’re telling me that Miss Moneypenny’s on her way to fucking gloat about this?”

“We might be able to use her,” Sam rationalizes, as calmly as he can. He finally feels himself unstick from the floor, and he takes a chair. “Until then, we use what Crowley gave us and we look for a cure.”

He pushes a book towards Dean, who takes it, vengefully, and throws himself into the chair opposite Sam.

 

 

The two hours until Eileen and Toni arrive seem endless, each book seems pointless, and the words jump from the pages in a jumble. Dean retreats to the room, and Cas emerges without him, shakily, and the angel confirms that Dean has taken up the vigil while he recovers and rests.

“How is she?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You should rest,” Sam urges.

The angel juts out his chin, defiantly, but then comments, with defeat, "I’m no use without my Grace.”

“Cas, that’s not true. You’re my best friend, you’re like a brother. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I don’t have a lot of friends left. I’d like to keep the ones I have, mojo or not.” Sam sighs. “Plus, Dean needs one less person to worry about right now. He doesn’t care about the Grace, but he’s gonna care a hell of a lot if you hurt yourself.”  

Finally, Cas nods, and shuffles off to his and Dean’s room.

Sam goes back to the books.

 

 

His mom is still, her chest barely rising and falling with breath. Sam knows Cas’ influence on her is weakening though, because every now and then she lets out a low keening sound. It’s almost inaudible it’s so soft, but the sound rips through his defenses and he can feel tears welling up in his eyes.

He knows no one is listening, but his thoughts still end up like a prayer. _Please. I just got her back. I’m just starting to know her. Haven’t we given enough?_

“Mom?” he says, not sure if she can hear him, but not really caring if she can’t. “Come back to us, ok? I know it’s been rough on you, and I know this isn’t what you expected of us, of our lives, but we need you, Mom. More than you know.” He covers one of her hands in his, feeling grounded by the contact. Her skin is warm, but not quite feverish. “Just, hold on, all right? We’re gonna find the cure. We’ll—"

Shouting from the library stops him cold, and he sprints in that direction, hating to leave Mary behind, but determined not to let anything happen to the family he has left. In the library, he finds Dean, Eileen, and Toni, the latter two apparently having just arrived. A shelf of books has been knocked askew, and Dean has pinned Toni against the wall with one hand, a gun trained on her in the other. Eileen is trying to pry them apart, but truthfully, she doesn’t seem all that concerned with Toni’s fate. Despite the imminent threat of death, Toni is regarding Dean calmly, and Sam thinks she either is a very good actress, has a death wish, or seriously underestimates his brother.

“Yes, shoot first, ask questions later. That’s the hunter motto, isn’t it?” she jabs.

“Give me one good reason I shouldn’t kill you right now.”

“Dean!” Eileen tries to protest as Sam approaches, hauling his brother off of the woman.

“Dean—"

“She fucking kidnapped you, Sam! And she _knew_ about Rowena!”

“Dean. Walk it off,” Sam commands, looming as best he can over his brother.

The look of betrayal on Dean’s face is like a shot in the heart, but Sam doesn’t budge. “What the hell, man?”

Through clenched jaw, Sam grits out, “She has _connections_ , Dean. So unless you found something in the books, _we need her._ ”

“Yes, you do need me. Unless you plan on just barreling out there—"

“Enough, Toni,” Eileen threatens, and Sam wonders just how much of Toni’s elitist bullshit the other hunter has had to put up with. And he still wants to know _how_ Eileen and Toni ended up working together on this. But one thing at a time. Right now: getting Dean to calm the fuck down.

Dean glares at the Woman of Letters, then says with as much defiance as he can muster, “I’m checking on Mom and Cas,” and he storms out of the room.

“Mom?” Toni asks in surprise as soon as Dean is out of earshot. “Mary Winchester?” Her eyes narrow. “What deal did you and your brother make to accomplish that?”

“We didn’t,” Sam counters. “God and Amara brought her back. As a thank you for saving the world and helping them.” He knows it was more Amara than God, but he has a feeling this Woman of Letters would be less than impressed with that bit of information. “And now Rowena’s cast a spell on her, and it’s killing her. Are you going to help us or not?”

Toni considers this, her eyes calculating. “What do you know about the spell?” she asks at last. Sam digs into his pocket and pulls out the incantation Crowley gave them. Toni studies it for a moment. “How do you know?”

“We just do.” There’s no way he’s telling her their source, and he’s uncomfortable in the realization that he’s not entirely sure if he’s doing it to protect themselves or to protect Crowley, or both.

She frowns. “I don’t recognize it, but the boys back home might. If I take out my mobile, try to make a call, will you promise not to kill me?” There’s a taunt in her request, and Sam knows that Dean’s actions have done little to change their reputation. Sam doesn’t even have to make an answer, though, and Toni has already stepped away, calling the London Chapterhouse.

Sam takes the moment to finally greet Eileen privately. “Are you ok?”

“I’m fine. Your mom?”

His hands feeling clumsy and awkward, Sam manages to get out, “Resting. Cas put her in a coma to help.”

“Your signing is better,” Eileen remarks as she steps up to him, wrapping her arms around him. It’s not really the time for this, but Sam finds he needs the embrace, the simple touch. After a quiet moment, they part, and move away from where Toni is still talking on the phone, and into the main part of the library.

“How did you know? Why is Toni here?” Sam manages to ask at last.

“Wants to start the Men of Letters in America again. Thinks I could have some kind of influence over you,” Eileen remarks wryly. She reaches up and tucks a loose lock of hair behind his ear, her fingers tracing lightly over his face. “I don’t trust her.”

“Me neither, but...she might be all we have.”

Eileen nods, then looks to the books with grim determination. “I say we don’t just wait around for them to figure it out.”

Sam wholeheartedly agrees.


	32. Love and Hate

Despite the adrenaline and frustration pumping through his veins, clouding his vision, Dean manages to take a breath and slow himself when he reaches his bedroom door. Carefully, he creaks it open. Most people would probably hear those hinges and reach for the WD-40, but they’re like a built-in alarm system, and today has once again shown him just how insecure this super secret Bunker really is.

It’s an unforgivable rookie mistake, not checking out the warding again, especially after Amara’s invasion and the Avengers meet-up to save the world. _Christ._ They’d fucking _invited_ Rowena in, they’d _known_ she could get past the defenses, and they hadn’t put them back into place.

And now his mom is an angel-induced coma, and may or may not be in excruciating pain, and the angel who is doing his fucking best to ease that situation, even if it kills him...

...is apparently resting quietly, and safely, in their bed.

Dean doesn’t turn on the lights, doesn’t go in, just watches for a moment, even if he knows that makes him a grade-A creeper and that he’s bitched at Cas enough times over the years for doing the same thing. But he just doesn’t fucking care. Right now, he just needs to know that Cas hasn’t done something stupid and is going to recover.

Satisfied—at least, as much as he can be right now—Dean goes back up the hallway to Mary’s room. She’s still there, still laid out in her boots and jeans and orangey-pink t-shirt, and her hair frames her face in that newer, shorter cut that had taken Dean by surprise when he’d seen it, but now he thinks he finds it easier to see her as more than just the mom he knew when he was a kid. He takes the seat by her bed that someone—either Cas or Sam—dragged up earlier. Her lids flutter and her breath is shallow.

He knows there’s nothing he can do for her right now, in this room. If anything, he should be back in the library with Sam and Eileen and, apparently, Lady Bitchface, putting Crowley’s clue to good use (and he doesn’t even want to know what he’s going to owe that bastard down the line). But Sam’s right: he knows he’s not in any shape to be civil to Toni right now, accept any help she and the fucking Men of Letters can offer, and so he takes a goddamn minute to himself and sits vigil with his mother.

“We fucked up, Mom,” he confesses, hunched over his knees, elbows digging into his thighs. “Shouldna just left you here, not without making sure the place was safe again. Goddammit, what were we _thinking_. It’s been _weeks_. So _fucking_ stupid.”

He takes a shaky breath and tries not to think about how she’d looked, broken and bloodied, before Cas put her back together like he’s done for them so many fucking times because the dumb bastard thinks that’s all he’s good for, tries not to think about the trail of blood, that sinking feeling in his gut, the panic from when he’d found Sam’s blood and the banishing sigil still a fresh wound. But at least the blood trail hadn’t been Mary’s, and she’d been armed, had gotten a shot off, because Mary Campbell Winchester goes down swinging.

“Fucking Rowena. At least you tagged her, though, right? God, I woulda paid big bucks to see the look on her face. We’re gonna find the bitch, Mom, and we’ll let you get first crack at her. Might have to fight Crowley for it, but my money’s on you. You’re gonna be ok. Sammy’s a fucking genius, he and Eileen’ll probably figure this out before the fucking Men of Letters do. Oh, yeah, they’re back...and this Toni, she’s a real peach. You’ll love her,” he adds with a sarcastic snort.

But his mom doesn’t make any response, save for a low sound that’s not quite a moan, and really not much more than a tortured exhale. He bites his lower lip, and he can feel his nails, short as they are, biting into his palms. So instead, he carefully reaches out a hand and brushes back a stray piece of hair from her brow.

“You used to do that for me, when I was sick. I remember. Tomato rice soup, and I’d put my head on your lap on the couch and we’d watch _Sesame Street_ , and you’d brush my hair back.” He knows he’s told her this before, more or less, back in 1978 because their lives are a fucking apocalyptic soap opera, but he’s not sure she really understood, not then, just how close he’s clung to those memories. “You’re gonna be ok. Nobody fucks with my family and gets away with it. You just...gotta hold on. We’ll get you back, all right? Me n’ Sam, we need you. And I know you n’ Cas don’t always see eye to eye, but...he’s family, same as you, and I—we, me n’ Sammy—don’t have a whole lot of that left. We need you to be ok. Just hold on, ok, Mom?”

_Just hold on._

 

 

When he leaves the room, he steels himself and heads back to the library. Sam and Eileen are hunched over books at the table, and Toni is on the phone, calm as can fucking be, sitting at the head of the other table like fucking royalty, and using Sam’s laptop, and there’s just something about that in particular that irritates the shit out of him. But, he doesn’t say anything, and instead takes the seat across from Sam and next to Eileen. Without a word, he pulls the closest book towards him, but Eileen stops his efforts.

“I already checked that one,” she explains, half-apologetically, and slides a different book towards him.

“Thanks.”

He hopes that didn’t come across as bitter as he thinks it might have; it’s not Eileen’s fault, and if this were any other situation, he’d probably be teasing his brother to marry the girl. He hates asking for help, but he’ll admit he’s damned grateful she’s pitching in. Luckily, Eileen just gives him an understanding half-smile, and yeah, he thinks his brother might have struck gold for a change. Kid could use a win.

“Any change?” Sam asks.

“Nope.”

“Cas?”

“He’s fine.”

They fall silent once again until Toni hangs up her phone and joins them at their table.

“Well,” she starts, “we don’t know anything yet, and there isn’t as much as I was hoping on our servers, but I’ve got people looking into it. Should turn up something soon.”

“Thanks, Toni,” Sam says, but Dean can hear the strain in his voice.

Dean just gives a grunt.

After a few minutes of tense research, Eileen declares she can’t do anymore without caffeine, and so Sam, gallant bastard that he is, goes with her to the kitchen. Dean doesn’t even have it in him to give him shit about the two of them going off together, especially not when Sam shoots him a look that clearly says _don’t kill her while I’m gone._ Toni, of course, misses nothing, but she waits until the other two have left the room to say anything.

“You know, Dean, I’m not the enemy here. _I_ didn’t try to kill your mother.”

“No, you just shot and kidnapped my brother and banished my...banished Cas.”

Dean knows he can glare with the best of them—he might not be up to Cas’ level, but hey, the dude’s got a few billion years of Heavenly wrath under his belt—but Toni just snorts derisively and shakes her head.

“Yes, because it always comes down to that, doesn’t it? Doesn’t matter if the rest of the world is killed, as long as your brother and angel are safe.” Toni’s lip curls up. “Where is the angel, anyway?”

“Resting.” He’s not even going to bother addressing the rest of the taunt. It’s not like he hasn’t heard it before, and it’s not like there isn’t some truth to it. Instead, he closes his book, sits forward and looks her right in the eye. “You know, when our grandfather, Henry, showed up in 2013, fresh from his Men of Letters initiation in 1958, he didn’t think much of us, either. Just hunters, he said. Apes, he called us. But he didn’t know, not at first, what it’s really like out there. But he understood, in the end.” Dean can see he’s piqued her interest, mentioning Henry, but she doesn’t ask any questions, and he enjoys the fleeting moment of superiority. “You ever hear about Bobby Singer?”

“The name did come up,” Toni admits.

“And you probably figured he wasn’t important? Just a washed up drunk at a salvage yard?” He takes her silence as a yes. “You never bothered to find out that Bobby could speak a dozen languages—some of ‘em dead—and knew more lore than all of us put together. You know what the difference is? Between him and you? He actually _used_ that lore to do something, do some good in this world. You had a problem, something you never seen before, you called Bobby. Everyone knew that.”

Toni’s eyes are hard, but he presses on.

“How about Ash?” A pang hits him when he realizes he never even knew Ash’s last name. “Guy went to MIT. Got kicked out for fighting, but he was a goddamn genius. And you know what he did when he got to Heaven? Built himself a fucking computer and hacked Angel Radio. You got anyone who could _hack_ Heaven? No? Because the guy with a fucking mullet who slept on pool tables figured it out.”

“That’s impossible,” Toni replies, but her tone is doubtful.

Dean snorts. “I was there, lady. I saw it. Or how about Charlie Bradbury? Kid took down Roman Enterprises like it was nothing and cracked _The Book of the Damned_ like it was the Sunday crossword. You think we’re just dumb, violent hunters, and I ain’t gonna lie, if it weren’t for Sam...well, our introduction probably wouldn’ve gone so smooth. So you can thank him, especially considering what you did to him. He don’t owe you shit. But,” he adds, his words dangerously low, “as soon as this is over, you can take your Men of Letters bullshit, shove it up your ass, and go home.”

Narrow eyes try to shoot daggers at him, but it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before. “You’re lucky we haven’t tried to bring you in again,” she threatens.

“And you’re lucky I got better things to do than worry about you.”

“Everything ok?” Sam asks, reentering the room with Eileen.

Dean and Toni both lean back from their glaring contest, and Toni replies brightly, “Just lovely.”

“What, nothing for me?” Dean snarks, indicating Sam and Eileen’s mugs.

“You can get your own coffee,” Sam replies, completely unfazed. Eileen mouths a silent, ‘sorry,’ behind his back.

Pushing back his chair, Dean hauls himself up. “Rather have a beer, anyway.”

He ignores the judgmental look from his brother. They ain’t fighting that battle today.

 

 

He’s just about to crack open the bottle when a voice behind him comments snidely, “Really? That’s what you’re having?”

Dean turns and just raises a brow at Crowley. He should probably be more bothered by the King of Hell just showing up in his kitchen, but at this point...

“What, this payback for telling you to sober up to face Amara? You my AA sponsor now?”

Crowley scoffs. “No, I just know you have better liquor stashed around this place.”

Drawing a hand from his pocket, he takes out something grassy-looking and purple, done up in a bundle, and tosses it to Dean, who catches the odd bouquet one-handed.

“You asking me to prom, Crowley? I’m flattered, but—"

“You’ve already got a date and, besides, your dress just wouldn’t match my tie—I know, it’s a shame.”

Dean tries not to scowl, reminded once again why he should never try to out-sass the demon. Instead, he puts the dried flowers or weeds or whatever on the counter, and finishes popping the cap off his beer, taking a cavalier swig. Crowley just watches with dry amusement.

“All right, I’ll bite. What is it?”

“Scottish thistle.”

Crowley steps forward to the counter in the center behind which Dean stands, and takes a seat on one of the stools. Dean realizes, seeing this, that the last time anyone sat there, God was making him and Sam pancakes. Because of course he was. Crowley lifts an inquisitive eyebrow; Dean rolls his eyes, and turns to a cabinet where he’s pretty sure he’s got a bottle of half-way decent whiskey: step up from Bobby’s rotgut, several steps down from Crowley’s preferred Craig. But if the King of Hell wants something better, he can go to a fucking bar or back to the hellhole he crawled out of.

“ _Danke_ ,” Crowley says to the bottle and tumbler thunked down before him. He pours himself a measure, toasts Dean, and takes a sip, grimacing slightly, but he makes no complaints.

“So, what do I want with some dried flower crap?”

“I take it you haven’t found a cure for Mother Mary yet?” Crowley takes another swig of whiskey at Dean’s silence. “Well, when you do, chances are, you’ll need that, and unless you plan on popping over to Scotland to pick that under a full moon, then wait to dry it—"

“I get the point,” Dean interrupts. “If you don’t know the cure, how do you know we’ll need that?”

“Gaelic spell, Rowena’s brand of magic has its roots in the Earth. Didn’t take much to put two and two together. Besides, had loads of this stuff in one of my warehouses. Fairly commonly used in this style of spellwork.”

Dean takes a sip of beer, but keeps his eyes on the demon. “Why are you doing this, Crowley?”

“Flair for the dramatic. Traumatic childhood. Delicious irony: the mother of the King of Hell harms the mother of the Righteous Man, and it’s the demon who saves the day.” He drains the tumbler. “Or maybe I just want you to owe me a favor. Take your pick.”

Dean doesn’t quite believe him, except for maybe that last one, but he’s also not entirely sure he wants to know the real reason why. Another mouthful of beer, as if he can wash this all away.

“Now,” the demon drawls, “what I want to know is if you’ll tell Jolly Green where you got this, or if I’ll just be your dirty little secret, another lie to add to the growing list.”

“I don’t lie to Sam.” _Not anymore_ , his brain unhelpfully corrects. His bottle is empty, and he needs another.

“Please, your entire relationship is predicated on a lie. Dean, the big brother: invincible, always taking care of the little brother, never a crack in the armor. And because Sam loves you, he lets you have it, even if you both know the truth. You play your roles, and you do them well. The brains or the brawn, but never both—as laughable of a conceit as that is.”

“Whatever,” he replies, second beer already a quarter done. He crosses his arms, still holding the bottle loosely in one hand, and tries to project that he doesn’t give a fuck, that there’s nothing Crowley can say that’ll bother him.

“But me and Castiel?” Crowley muses, philosophically, as he pours himself more whiskey, and Dean’s eyes involuntarily snap up at this. “We’re the most honest relationships you have." He pauses, taking an agonizingly slow sip and contemplation of his whiskey while his words hang in the air. "That’s why you hate and love Castiel, and why you hate and tolerate me. Castiel knows everything you’ve done, he understands it. He’s _seen_ it. And he forgives you. And you hate that. I know everything you’ve done, I understand it, I’ve done it. I _recognize_ it. And you hate that.”

Dean stills, and his face drops into a mask, one that he _knows_ Crowley can see right through, but it’s not like he has a lot of other options. “I don’t hate Cas,” he defends automatically because his mouth has obviously decided to cut ties with his brain.

“And that,” Crowley says smugly, taking a drink with an almost wistful smirk, “is why _our_ ship has sailed.” The demon gets up, and puts the empty glass on the counter. “Thanks for the drink.”

The room is empty again except for his thoughts, which are just too damn loud, especially when he realizes what he basically confessed to _the King of Hell_ through omission. Just to add one more reason to feel like shit and wonder why Cas doesn’t just go find someone better. And the part that freaks him out the most? It’s not even the realization that _that_ is true, but that Cas isn’t even the first one to hear it.

Footsteps still his thoughts for the moment, and then he hears Sam’s voice call out, “Dean?” from just outside the door.

“In here,” he answers dully.

Sam’s frame seems to fill the doorway, and his expression is a mix of exhaustion, worry, and hope. “We think we have something.”

Dean straightens up. “What? What do we gotta do?”

Shaking his head, Sam answers, “We don’t have it all yet. I found a reference to a text that might have what we need, but we don’t have the book. Men of Letters say they’ve got it at their end. Kinda. It’s at one of their satellite locations or something.”

“Always something,” Dean mutters, the excitement he’d barely begun to feel immediately squashed. He puts the bottle down on the counter, next to the whiskey, tumbler, and thistle.

Sam notices, of course, and gives Dean an arched brow and pursed lips. “Whiskey _and_ beer?”

“Crowley.”

If Dean thought Sam was filling the doorway before, it’s nothing compared to how his brother squares off in frustration now.

“He was back _again_? What the hell, Dean? Why didn’t you come get us? What did he want?”

“Calm down, you didn’t miss anything,” Dean scowls, and pushes the thistle across the counter towards Sam. “He just came in here, acted like a dick as usual, drank some whiskey, and gave us this.”

“Thistle?” His brother’s expression clears. “For the counterspell.”

“Apparently,” Dean shrugs, not even bothered that Sam figured it out a hell of a lot quicker than he did. Then again, guy’s been nose-deep in the books all night; he probably came across this fucking thistle a couple of times.

Sam’s brow furrows, and suspicion seeps into his voice. “What’d he want?”

Dean rubs the back of his neck. “I dunno. Stick it to Rowena? Get us to owe him later?”  _Screw with my head?_

“All right,” Sam says slowly, mentally tallying that for another day. “Anyway, there isn’t much we can do right now, except wait for them to get back to us. We should probably try to get a couple hours of sleep.”

In the hallway, with Sam close behind him, Dean stops. “You should give the princess Cas’ old room.”

Thinking of how much Cas hates the room, how it’s just a reminder of shitty situations, he can’t think of a better place to stash the Woman of Letters.

Sam just smirks. “Already did.”

Dean's always known he has a good brother.

 

 

The room is still dark, but from the low light of the hallway, Dean can make out Cas’ form on the bed, unmoving. He’d be worried if it were anyone else. Quietly, he shucks off boots, jeans, and overshirt, and crawls into bed beside the angel.

“Dean?” Cas asks groggily, while trying to sit up, snapping to alertness far more quickly than is natural, for a human at least. “What is it? I think I have most of my Grace back. What do you need?”

Gently, Dean puts a hand on his chest, pushing Cas back down to the mattress, then wraps his arm around him. “I just need this.”

 

 

The next morning finds Cas back at Mary’s bedside, easing her restless twitching; she’d been doing this more, but nothing near the writhing she'd been suffering through in the archives when they found her. Dean stands behind Cas, one hand on his shoulder. He tries not to dig his fingers in, but every time he feels Cas’ Grace pull out of him, he tenses, waiting for it to go that step too far.

“She should be safe for awhile now,” Cas tells him once they’re in the hallway. For some reason, none of them feel comfortable having conversations in the room with her lying there, unable to participate.

His hand is back on the angel’s shoulder, but this time they are facing each other, probably too close for polite company; then again, Dean Winchester’s never been one for politeness or the company it keeps.

“Thank you, Cas.”

“Of course.”

“No, not ‘of course.’ Not everyone would do that, man.”

Cas frowns, and his eyes are earnestly blue. “That’s what family does.”

The hand on the shoulder moves to Cas’ jaw, the other finds his waist, and Dean pulls the angel in until their lips meet, trying tell Cas without words just how much it means to hear Cas say that, how grateful he is for Cas in this moment. He thinks, judging from Cas’ response and the hands on his own waist and arm, that message is received, loud and clear.

“Uh...Cas? Dean?”

Reluctantly, they pull apart, finding Eileen observing them with an amused expression.

“Sorry,” Dean offers uncomfortably.

“Do you need us?” Cas asks, sounding completely professional and not at all embarrassed, that fucker.

Eileen nods, and they follow her to the library. Toni and Sam are both leaning over the laptop screen. They don’t even look up when the three of them enter the room, and as Dean gets closer, he hears Toni remark, “Are you sure you have all of this?”

“Bunker’s pretty well stocked,” Sam nods, and Dean doesn’t miss the quick look in his direction, which Dean interprets as meaning, yeah, the holy freaking thistle’s on the list.

“What is the process?” Cas asks, joining them, his words clipped, especially in the direction of Toni.

She answers just as stiffly, “Standard spell. Poultice with the appropriate herbs and ingredients—"

“You mean a hex bag,” Dean juts in. “Except wet and gross. God, I fucking hate witches.”

“Yes,” Toni agrees impatiently. “And while I’m sure your Bunker is ‘well stocked,’ I hardly think we have the magical power to make this work, unless one of you is also a witch.”

Dean looks to Sam, but Sam shakes his head. “This is beyond anything we’ve done.”

“Whatever spells you’ve done are child’s play compared to what a real witch can do,” Toni adds. “And this is old world magic, not American.”

Cas gives her a look that would make a lesser person tremble, and Dean thinks he could kiss him again, right here and now. “Europe is hardly ‘old world,’ and I would think your studies would have taught you there have been civilizations on this continent long before European interference.”

Sam smirks at Toni’s flustered expression, and Dean’s pretty sure he’s got a similar look on his face, until something occurs to him, and he feels like a dick for asking, but he has to.

“Cas, could you...?”

Sadly, Cas shakes his head, and Dean nods sympathetically and with reassurance that it’s ok.

“Cas!” Eileen pipes up, and the angel turns to her, and she begins signing, way too fast for him to even try to pick out the three or four phrases he now knows (besides, he somewhat thinks they’re past the “How are you?" “I’m fine, thanks" stage of conversation). Even Sam looks lost, and Dean feels a little better. Cas watches her hands fly with interest, and Dean can almost _hear_ the gears turning in his head. Cas’ hands move deftly in response, and even though Dean doesn’t know shit about ASL, he knows Cas, and he can tell the angel’s excited—well, as excited as he gets.

Finally, Dean can’t take it anymore and asks, “What?”

Eileen turns to the group proudly, and announces, “I think I know someone who can help.”

Seriously, as soon as this is over, Dean is hounding his brother to marry this girl. Sam better not fuck this up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. Proudfanboy -- I told you I was a sucker for Dean & Crowley scenes. :)


	33. Reading Between the Lines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, but c'est la vie.
> 
> But hey, there's a callback to an old fan favorite here (even if they don't appear).

The hot Kansas air is flat, unmoving, and the sun beats down on the hard-packed dirt leading out to the main road. There’s some respite in the shade, and so Siobhán stays on her porch. Her long skirt is loose around her ankles, her blouse hangs on her slight frame, and her hair has been wrestled back, as usual, away from her face, and pinned haphazardly. The scenery is unchanging, for now: just the dirt driveway, the flat expanse of overgrown field that passes as a front yard, a few trees in the distance, and a bright blue sky.

Her eyes are fixed outward, just as still as the air, and she doesn’t react at all when sees the first plumes of dust kicked up from a sleek black car whose engine echoes in the open space. She thinks she’s going to have to have a word with Eileen: this is three times they’ve come here; if she wanted to socialize, she’d move to town.

They’re still too far away for her to read them, but she can sense there’s six people—well, five, and the angel—in the car. She frowns, even though she’d known they would be coming: six minds is a crowd. There’s a reason she likes her privacy.

The car rumbles to a halt and a tall man with short, light brown hair emerges from behind the wheel. Although, it appears tall is a relative term when a second man, with longer brown hair, unfolds his frame from the passenger side. Eileen follows, also from the front, while the angel and a woman she doesn’t know emerge from the back. Siobhán feels like she’s watching a clown car unload. But there’s one more person still in the backseat, and the driver immediately goes to the angel, who had been sitting with the unconscious figure. They speak in a low murmur, and Siobhán studies the two of them for a second, intrigued by what she can only describe as a soulbond between them. The man reads as human and is projecting—both physically and psychically—concern and frustration, but there are traces of the angel’s confusing mix of Grace on him. She's never seen the like.

The tallest man and Eileen approach, and while she can sense the similar levels of concern for the unconscious woman on them—more so from the man than from Eileen—she can also feel the nascent connection between the two. The woman in the back exudes confidence and condescension, but Siobhán notes with interest the concern for a distant child and even notes of fear.

She’s not a mind-reader (and she wonders how Missouri Moseley can stand to be around people so often), but she gets glimpses of the future, can read auras (which can be disorienting enough, having foreign emotions and concerns battering at her own mind), and is in tune with the supernatural forces that seem to be drawn to the Circle. From this, she knows that whatever they have come here for, it must be tied to the woman still in the car with the sharp tang of a curse blanketed by angelic Grace.

“Eileen,” she greets the approaching hunter with a nod.

“Hi, Siobhán. This is Sam Winchester,” she introduces, pointing to the man next to her. “That’s—”

“Dean, I’m assuming,” Siobhán finishes. “I’ve heard of you. Not always the nicest things, either.”

Sam purses his lips, looking contrite. “We know, but I promise you, we’re—"

“Not the bad guys,” Siobhán says, inwardly enjoying Sam’s momentary fluster and his unasked question if she’d just guessed what he was going to say or she’d  _known_. In this case, it was a guess—an easy one at that; again, she's no mind-reader. Intuition and their auras filled in the rest. Besides, how else would he have finished that sentence? “Don't worry, I know which sources to trust. Missouri Moseley’s word is good, but last I heard, she was wondering why you boys never call.”

“You know Missouri?”

“How many psychics you think we got in this state?” she retorts with an arched brow. “I also hear you’re smarter than you look, so don’t act dumb. What’re you here for, anyway? What happened to that woman?”

Sam glances over his shoulder, as does Eileen. “She’s my mother. She was hit with a spell, and we need help reversing it.”

“Hm,” Siobhán answers noncommittally. “And who’s she?”

The other woman steps forward primly. “Lady Toni Bevell, Men of Letters, London.”

Siobhán sizes her up, then turns back to Eileen. “You know I’m not a witch, and the Circle can only do so much.”

“We know. But we were hoping you could still help. We need someone who can reach into Mary’s mind, help bring her back when we do the counterspell.”

Siobhán _hrmphs_ , and Sam draws out a piece of paper from his pocket to hand to her. He walks to the bottom of the porch steps, and even from the ground, he’s tall enough to hand her the paper without her having to bend at all. She takes it and casts an eye over the words.

“It says—" Lady Toni Bevell starts, but Siobhán fixes an eye on her.

“I know what it says,” she snaps. “You think I can’t read Gaelic?” The Lady colors faintly. “This is a powerful spell: it’s tied to the body, the mind, and the Earth. I make no promises that it will work. It would be better to find the witch who did this and have her reverse it.”

“We know,” Sam explains. “Trust me, finding her is on our list. But we need to do this soon. Cas’ Grace can’t keep her under much longer.”

“We wouldn’t have come if we had any other choice,” Eileen apologizes.

Siobhán knows this, and in truth, she had no intention of turning them down. “All right, bring her out. Eileen, you can lead the way.”

The hunter nods, and turns back to the car where Dean has already brought out the woman—Mary—and is holding her in his arms, a look of grim determination steeling his features. Castiel stands close by, holding Mary’s wrist, and Siobhán can see weak tendrils of Grace pass into her skin. She wonders just how much more the angel can give.

The distance to the Circle isn’t far, but Siobhán thinks that even if it had been miles, Dean would have resisted letting anyone else take her, not until he collapsed from exhaustion, and only then would he allow his brother to step in. Gently, they lay her in the center of the stones, and Lady Toni steps up with the poultices of herbs. Eileen, however, stops her from actually applying them, taking them and giving part to Sam. Between the two of them, they cover Mary’s arms, legs, forehead, and just above her heart. Dean and Castiel stand to the side, the hunter bracing the angel. Barefoot, Siobhán steps into the Circle and kneels before the blonde woman, placing a hand softly on her cheek and another on her arm, just below the shoulder.

“Now, we begin.”


	34. Little Talks

_fire blood yellow eyes those yellow eyes burning no sammy dean john burning blood_

“Bloody hell!”

_blood_

_blood_

_fire flame run run go help_

“MOM!”

_here_

_fire blood burning no those yellow eyes no_

“Seizure?”

_no not that can hear you sammy dean castiel i can hear you_

_fire burning_

_blue bright blue_

“Is she in pain?”

“I...I don’t know.”

_it’s ok dean sammy castiel no pain not like before_

_blue just blue_

_demon why no no demon no run dean sammy castiel_

“My Grace. I don’t know how long it will keep her under..."

_please more no more fire no more blood_

_blue just blue please_

“Do you think she’ll be ok?”

“I’m not sure, Dean.”

“Cas—"

“I know.”

_flame flickering no not again_

_blue more blue_

_i’m sorry castiel_

“I’ll stay. You should go help Sam.”

“I don’t wanna leave her—"

“This is how you can help.”

_dean listen i’m ok i’m ok i’m sorry_

“I’ll be back, Mom. We’re gonna find something.”

_i know i know i know hurry i’m slipping falling falling_

“Mary. I know things have been difficult for you. It maybe presumptuous for me to say, considering...considering I am an angel and we—they—have been cruel to you and your family, but...I understand. I understand finding your place in this life is hard. Things are so confusing and infuriating and often painful.”

_lost so lost do i belong here_

“But, there is a place for you. There’s always been a place for you here. There are good things in this life, here on Earth.”

_i know i think i hope_

“Dean and Sam will find a way. They always do. I’m sorry I can’t do more.”

_i know i’m sorry stay with them need you i know now thank you_

“I think..."

_slipping no please dark dark dark dark_

_blue flame blue blue blue_

_dark dark_

“Mom?”

_sammy my sammy_

“Come back to us, ok? I know it’s been rough on you, and I know this isn’t what you expected of us, of our lives, but we need you, Mom. More than you know. Just, hold on, all right? We’re gonna find the cure. We’ll—"

_no come back keep me here_

_hold on_

_hold on_

_i’m trying_

_slipping falling gone gone gone no stay i’m here i’m here i’m here_

“We fucked up, Mom. Shouldna just left you here, not without making sure the place was safe again...So fucking stupid.”

_no no no my fault dean nursery should have known all my fault never supposed to be like this_

“Fucking Rowena...my money’s on you. You’re gonna be ok. Sammy’s a fucking genius, he and Eileen’ll probably figure this out...”

_dean i hear but slipping fading falling dark stay need to stay_

“You used to do that for me...Tomato rice soup... _Sesame Street_...brush my hair back...gotta hold on...you n’ Cas don’t always see eye to eye, but...he’s family, same as you...don’t have a whole lot of that left...Just hold on, ok, Mom?”

_i remember just little boy but no more who am i now who am i_

_i am_

_here_

_am i_

_hold on_

_can’t_

_dark blue fall_

_blue blue blue blue blue castiel fading too no_

_too much i’ll be ok blue_

_slipping white bright fading_

“Mary?”

_john?_

_how no yes_

“It’s me, Mary.”

_am i_

“No, not yet. Not for a long time. You need to go back, Mary.”

_how why_

“You’re stronger than this. You’re a fighter, Mary. Only woman I ever knew who could put me in my place. And I needed that.”

_i needed you_

_need you_

_love you_

_remember you said_

_take me away_

“I remember. But I can’t do that again.”

_why_

_they don’t need me_

“They’ve always needed you, Mary. We all did.”

_all grown up so strong so good but_

_my sweet boys_

_not boys_

_am i their mother can i be_

_don’t fit_

_don’t belong_

“Just be there, Mary. Maybe that’s all they need. I wasn’t there, not like that. I should’ve been, but I wasn’t.”

_it’s ok forgive you forgive me_

_but you_

_here_

“I’ll still be here when you get back. I’ll always be here. I can wait. And you will, too.”

_love you_

“I love you, too. Always have. Tell my boys I love them.”

_i will_

_love you love you_

 

 **Return. Return. Come back to us.**

_i hear_

_i'm coming_

 

_Blue. Sky. Sun._

“Mom!”

“Mom!”  

_Dean. Sam._

“Did it work?”

“See for yourself.”

Mary blinks. She doesn’t recognize that voice—female, but rough with age. She feels heavy on the ground, her limbs leaden. But before she can move, strong hands are easing her up into a sitting position, and her sons’ faces are there, worried and relieved.

“Dean, Sam,” she chokes out in a sob, and she clutches at their jackets, drawing them in, and her tears soak into flannel shoulders. She has so much she wants to tell them, so much she wants them to know, but it’s all too much. Arms wrap around her back and shoulders, pulling them all tight, and she hopes this is enough for now.

They help her to stand, eventually, and she notices at last the residue of something pungent and herbal on her arms, legs, and chest, and her forehead feels recently scrubbed clean. She looks around her, notes the circle of stones surrounding bright green grass, while light straw pokes out of the ground outside.

An old woman with fly-away grey hair looks mildly satisfied, and she says to someone behind Mary, “I trust you’ll clean up this mess.”

Her sons both turn to the woman, and Sam gives her a broken, “Thank you,” one that Dean confirms with a solemn nod.

“Mhm,” is the old woman’s only response before she stalks away, the tall grass whisking at her skirt.

Mary leans into her sons for support, feeling weak and worn in ways she can’t even describe. Three figures come into view, and Mary is relieved by the sight of two of them; the third, she doesn’t recognize, but the other woman stands a distance off, as though unsure of where she belongs in this gathering. Castiel’s eyes are heavy with concern, and Mary takes a careful step towards the angel. He looks surprised when she hugs him around the shoulders, and she can feel him stiffen in surprise when she whispers, “I heard you. And thank you. Thank you for keeping me here.”

“I—" he says, but she shakes her head when they part. He understands: he doesn’t have to say anything.

She steps back and Dean catches her under the elbow, steadying her. To Eileen, she signs, “thank you.” Even though she doesn’t know what role the girl played, she knows those two words, that one sign, aren’t enough.

In the distance, past an old farmhouse, she thinks she can make out the hulking form of the Impala. Below her, her knees shake.

“You’re going to make me walk all the way there?” she says, as lightly as she can. Sam and Dean let out cautious chuckles. “The Impala’s suspension worth more than your mother?”

“Dean’s _Sophie’s Choice_ ,” Sam teases, though his voice is still strained, and Mary grips his sleeve.

“What? That’s not—" Dean protests.

“It’s ok, Dean. I’m just kidding. I can make it back. Just need to take my time.”

_I’m back. I’ve returned. I’m here. I can do this._

“One step at a time,” Castiel comments, awkwardly proud of his turn of phrase.

_Yes. One step at a time._

 

 

It’s evening when she wakes again, this time in her room, clad in the soft pants, apparently known as “yoga pants", and t-shirt she’s taken to sleeping in. In the hallway, she can hear voices from the kitchen, and she can pick out the low rumbles of her boys and the higher tones of Eileen. She smiles for a moment, enjoying the sounds of the four voices, before padding softly to the library. There’s one voice she did not hear, and she thinks she might know where to find that one.

Lady Toni Bevell is in the library, as she suspected. She’d been too tired earlier to care much what the woman was doing here after being quickly introduced (if Eileen’s curt, “That’s the Woman of Letters who took Sam. Lady Toni Bevell,” counts as an introduction). The Woman of Letters hadn’t said much of anything on the car ride home, and Mary thinks that was a wise decision on her part.

She did notice, however, the both calculating and wary looks the woman had given her.

For that, she doesn’t blame Lady Bevell. Toni.

A resurrected mother is very suspicious.

But, there is other blame to assign.

“Mary,” Toni nods from the table where she sits, legs crossed, before Sam’s laptop.

“Toni.”

“Can I help you? I believe Dean and Sam are—"

Mary sits opposite the other woman, unsmiling. “No. It’s you I want to talk to.”

“Me? Why—" Toni pauses at Mary’s glare, and her eyes flick nervously around the room. “I helped save you, Mary. I—"

“Don’t. Whatever help you gave, it’s because you wanted something from us. Or to justify what you did to my sons, my family.”

Toni crosses her arms and sits back, adopting that air of superiority and righteousness that makes Mary want to reach across the table and punch her. “What _I_ did to your family? Mary, I know you’ve been out of the game for a long time, but do you have any _idea_ the damage they’ve done?”

“I do know,” Mary answers lowly. “And if you want someone to blame, you come after _me_ , not them.”

“You?” Toni frowns. “What have you done? For a hunter family, the Campbells were well-respected. And just because your husband went on a mad revenge quest—”

“Do your research, Toni. There seem to be some gaps.” Mary crosses her own arms. “Speaking of: you have a witch problem on your hands.”

“ _I_ have a witch problem? I’m not the one she came after, not the one she’s done business with before.”

Mary smirks. “You Men of Letters: can’t see the forest for the trees, can you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Rowena didn’t come after me: she didn’t even know I was here, that I existed. Didn’t come after Sam or Dean, either. She _waited_ until they were gone, and then she broke in and went right to the archives. She didn’t want my boys. She wanted something from the Men of Letters. And as their representative from across the pond, and considering that Scottish lilt of hers...”

Toni pales, and Mary can see pieces of a puzzle clicking together for her. “Glasgow,” she says, though that doesn’t tell Mary anything.

“I don’t know if Rowena got what she wanted. Honestly, I don’t care. Right now? I care about you getting the hell out of my home and away from my family.”

“Burning bridges already, Mary? Is this a genetic trait? I always assumed it was from the Winchester side, but—”

“Are you a mother?" Toni doesn't respond, but Mary recognizes the look in her eyes. "Then you should understand.  _You_ shot my son. _You_ kidnapped him. _You_ banished their family. _You_ would have done the same to my other son. _I_ didn’t burn any bridges. If the Men of Letters want a bridge, they better find someone else to build it. We’ll be here.” Mary stands up. “I suggest you leave before I come back.”

 

 

They give her two days to rest and recover before the topic of Rowena comes up. Toni must have taken the hint from Mary and had made herself scarce, but they all suspect they’ll be hearing from the Men of Letters again. Eileen leaves after the first day, taking with her thanks from all corners and invitations back again (more from Sam than anyone, of course). And then it’s just the Winchesters in the Bunker, all four of them, because Mary knows the angel has more than earned his place in the family, even if it took her too long to see that.

She knows Dean and Sam have been eying the news, looking for any leads on Rowena. But, for two days, they don’t mention it, except in the guilt and anger in their eyes. They throw themselves into warding the Bunker as well, berating themselves inside for not doing more before all this. Mary helps researching protection sigils, enjoying feeling useful, even if she still tires easily.

Dean breaks first, letting out a frustrated, “Where the fuck could she have gone?” one morning, shutting his computer with far more force than necessary. “Seriously, that’s it? She breaks in, hits Mom, and then goes dark?”

“We’ll find her,” Sam says, as patiently as possible, but Mary can tell even he is agitated.

“We’re not getting revenge on her,” Mary says, quietly, from her corner of the library table. Dean and Sam’s heads snap to her, and even Cas looks up from his book with a puzzled expression.

“Mom, she tortured you, and Cas—"

“I’m fine, now, Dean. She reversed that.”

“Yeah, but still, she’s fucking evil, man, and—"

“Exactly. She’s evil,” Mary agrees. Sam and Dean look at her, brows furrowed. “I didn’t say we shouldn’t find her. I’m saying we’re not doing this to get even.” She laces her fingers together on the table, studying them for a moment, then she looks up at her boys. “This family has lost too much to revenge. If we go after Rowena, we do it because she’s dangerous and evil, not to settle a score.”

Dean deflates, and his eyes flick to Sam, who nods, and says, “Ok. No more revenge.”

“Yeah, ok, Mom,” Dean echoes soberly.

“Good.” Mary opens her own laptop. “Now, c’mon. We have work to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from [the song](https://play.google.com/music/preview/Tctmprl33wobfnzhd7sdeclr5x4?lyrics=1&utm_source=google&utm_medium=search&utm_campaign=lyrics&pcampaignid=kp-lyrics) by Of Monsters and Men.
> 
> Also, if Ch. 26 was inspired by the BtVS song, and Mary's arc is somewhat inspired by Buffy's in S6, then that means John is essentially Spike. Hahahahaha...I dunno why, but I find this immensely funny, and I wrote it. *sigh* Oh well.
> 
> Ok, so I think this has got just a couple chapters left...hoo boy this has been a long ride. :)


	35. When the Battle's Lost and Won

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super short chapter, but now just one more left! Ahhhhh

The gunshot wound in her abdomen had been painful, but not insurmountable; she did recover having her neck snapped by Lucifer, after all. If anything, Rowena laments the tear in her gown _._ She’s not even angry at Mother Winchester, not personally, at least: it appears the woman has bigger balls than either of her sons—or Rowena's son, for that matter—and Rowena almost feels a kinship there. Not of bosom friends, of course, but of the kind of professional respect due to a worthy rival.

Three days of recovering, reworking her protective warding, and staying out of sight in case any of the infernal Winchesters decided to try and hunt her down.

But, now she’s on her own land again, away from their interference.

The High Priestesses are holding court again, such as it is, and Rowena holds up her head high as she glides into the room before them. Maeven, Zahra, and Aster are not the only witches present, however: to the left and the right are two lines of women, and the occasional man (steeped in tradition they may be, but witches have always been progressive in some regards). Their numbers are so depressing low these days, but Rowena still regards them carefully. So much untapped potential.

Well, untapped for now.

But that can wait.

“Rowena,” Maeven begins. “I hope you bring better news than the rumors.”

“And what rumors would those be?”

“That the Winchesters still live and that you were nearly killed in your foolish ploy.” Zahra’s voice is cutting, but Rowena remains unperturbed.

“Well, killing the Winchesters was never my plan,” Rowena explains, speaking not just to the High Priestesses but to the entire room. “This was always the Grand Coven’s problem: too concerned with such petty concerns, like two hunters. We must think _grander._ ”

In truth, Rowena would prefer not to go up directly against the Winchesters, who seem to lived charmed lives. She still isn’t sure by what power Dean still walks the Earth, or whether God and Amara are still invested in the brothers, and she has no desire to be on the wrong end of that kind of divine power. Not again.

But the Grand Coven doesn’t need to know that.

Aster leans forward. “You said this was about the Men of Letters. If not the Winchesters, then—"

Rowena grins slyly. “Ah yes. The _American_ Men of Letters. The Men of Letters are like a hydra. Cutting off one head never killed the beast.” She paces along the hall, making eye contact with as many of the witches as possible. “In fact, the Men of Letters kept many of our secrets closer to home.”

Maeven frowns. “The European chapters have been hidden and lost for decades—centuries, in the case of some.”

“Hidden, yes,” Rowena agrees. “Lost, no.”  

She turns to the doors and beckons a young witch forward. The girl keeps her eyes cast down demurely, and she holds a sealed black box in two hands. The box has been wiped clean of blood from its theft from the Bunker in Kansas, and its silver clasp gleams in the flickering candlelight.

“Thank you, child,” Rowena says. She passes a hand over the box, and red sigils flash into existence and back out, unlocking it. From inside, she draws out an old leather-bound journal. At a glance, it seems utterly unremarkable: the leather is cracked, and the ink is faded almost to illegibility on the brittle and yellowed parchment-like pages.

“What relic is this?” Maeven sneers.

Rowena ignores the tone, and instead grins triumphantly. “This, Coven, is the key to the whole _world_ of the Men of Letters.”

She basks in the murmurs rippling through her audience.

It’s just a matter of time now before it is she who sits among the High Priestesses.

Until she is _the_ High Priestess.

 

 

Looking out the window of her hotel room, Rowena finds herself remembering when Glasgow was hardly more than a church and a few small dwellings along dirt path-roads. While she certainly enjoys the luxuries of the modern age, she can’t say she entirely loves the hustle bustle of it.

She takes a sip of her champagne. Maybe it’s too early to celebrate her success with the Grand Coven. Maybe she just likes the champagne.

The hairs on the back of her neck rise and she can feel the warding inked onto her skin tingle...and then silence. Faintly, she can smell sulphur, and—

_No. It’s impossible!_

She spins, dropping the champagne glass, where it shatters at her feet.

“Hello, Mother.”


	36. Horizons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting these last two chapters at once. Make sure you didn't miss the previous one!
> 
> (If I got the descriptions for the ASL signs wrong, please correct me. I checked a few sites to see if they were the same, but again, I'm not fluent in the language.)

“You look like you just got electrocuted.”

“Ok, fine, let’s see you try it, mister.”

Cas frowns, puzzled by Sam and Mary’s voices coming from Sam’s room. He pauses by the door, which is open half-way, and sees Sam in a chair by his desk while Mary sits cross-legged on the bed. Sam signs something, but from the angle, Cas can’t quite tell what it is.

“All right, fine, you win,” Mary grumbles with amusement. “I never said I was going to be any good at this.”

“What are you trying to learn?” Cas asks, startling both of them.

“Hey, Cas. Dean isn’t kidding when he says you need a bell,” Sam shakes his head. “C’mon in. We’re just practicing ASL.”

“I know. I was wondering which signs were giving you trouble.”

Cas enters the room, but stays close to the door. Mary shifts on the bed, indicating with a pat of a hand that he is welcome to take a corner of the mattress; he accepts the offer.

Sam does the sign again. His left hand is around mid-chest, palm up, thumb meeting forefinger. His right hand does the opposite, touching the thumb and forefinger of his right hand to the tips of the left before bringing the right hand up in a gentle zig-zag path.

“Ghost?” Cas interprets.

“Yeah, we got vampire, too,” Mary says, clawing two fingers and touching them to her neck.

Sam shrugs, a little self-consciously. “Figured learning some signs for hunting might be a good idea.”

Cas nods, then signs, while also saying out loud, “I could teach you others.”

Sam grins. “Really? That’d be awesome. Thanks, man.”

“Perks of having an angel around,” Mary remarks.

Cas' fingertips graze his shoulders before turning out and flapping slightly. “Angel,” he explains. “Not a very accurate representation of actual angel wings, although that would be difficult to sign.”

Smiling a little with satisfaction when the two Winchesters chuckle, he settles more comfortably on the bed, feeling warm and gratified that he can contribute something _human_ to his new family.

 

 

On the way back to his and Dean’s room, Cas pauses to send a text to Eileen; the hunter had been insistent that anyone she travels overseas with on a rescue mission is guaranteed friend status. Knowing how much Eileen still values her independence and privacy, Cas had been immensely touched by the gesture, especially considering the incredibly short list of people he can consider friends. 

 

> CASTIEL: Hello, Eileen. Sam and Mary are still working very hard at learning ASL. We were practicing together.
> 
> EILEEN: Hey cas. Howre they doing?
> 
> CASTIEL: Better, but they still need a lot of work. I’m afraid I can’t work miracles.
> 
> EILEEN: Youre an angel...arent miracles part of the job description?
> 
> CASTIEL: Yes?
> 
> EILEEN: Im kidding. I just love that theyre trying
> 
> EILEEN: How about you? Things good w u and dean?
> 
> CASTIEL: Yes
> 
> EILEEN: Either u got distracted or theres a reason that took a min to respond
> 
> EILEEN: Cas?
> 
> CASTIEL: No, we’re fine. Sorry. Just distracted for a minute
> 
> EILEEN: Ok always here if u need to talk
> 
> CASTIEL: I know. :) Take care.
> 
> EILEEN: U too :)

He’s about to put the phone away and step into the bedroom when the phone vibrates again, but it’s not Eileen. Instead, it’s Claire, responding to his earlier inquiries if they could meet sometime soon. Hopefully, not on a hunt. 

 

> CLAIRE: Jodys having a bbq next wknd
> 
> CLAIRE: Bring sam n dean
> 
> CLAIRE: Itll be a disaster...itll be great :P
> 
> CASTIEL: Why would it be a disaster? :( And I don’t think ‘crashing’ Jody’s party would be appropriate.
> 
> CLAIRE: Cops vs hunters/angel
> 
> CASTIEL: I don’t think it would be wise to discuss hunting amongst cops.
> 
> CLAIRE: Ur no fun
> 
> CLAIRE: Pretty sure everyone knows dean n sam as jodys fbi friends anyway
> 
> CLAIRE: But w/e...its cool i get it
> 
> CASTIEL: I'll come, if Jody is ok with that. And I can ask Dean and Sam.
> 
> CLAIRE: Oh ok cool. I’ll talk to jody
> 
> CASTIEL: Thank you for the invitation, Claire. :D
> 
> CLAIRE: Ya no prob
> 
> CASTIEL: Good night, Claire. :)
> 
> CLAIRE: Night dork :)

“Who’re you texting?”

Behind him, Dean’s voice is rough with exhaustion; the past few days have been filled with rewarding the Bunker and looking for leads on Rowena’s whereabouts, despite Mary’s insistence that they do not do so out of revenge, a sentiment Castiel agrees with, though he wonders if any of them will truly be able to separate this into just another job, even with Mary’s theory that Rowena’s true target is the Men of Letters, not any of them specifically. The whole situation has left them all feeling unsettled and frustrated.

“Claire. And Eileen, earlier,” Cas replies as Dean follows him into the bedroom.

“You stealing Sammy’s girl? I ain’t defending you from the overgrown giant if you are. You're on your own there.”

Castiel huffs, “Eileen is more than capable of taking care of herself. As for me, dealing with the irritable moods of one Winchester is enough, thank you.”

“Ouch,” Dean smirks. Sitting in a chair, he unlaces his boots. “So, Claire, huh? You guys ok?”

“She wants us to come to a barbecue at Jody’s. She thinks it would be amusing, seeing as the rest of the company would be cops.”

Dean frowns at that. “You gonna go?”

“I told her I would, if Jody approves. I would understand if you would prefer not to.”

“I’ll go with you,” Dean says, almost surprised. “Not gonna Bartleby my way out.”

“Melville?”

Dean colors slightly, and lifts a self-deprecating shoulder. Castiel sighs internally, frustrated as always by Dean’s insistence on pretending he knows less than he does.

“Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t pull any awkward angel crap,” Dean deflects, not at all bothered by Castiel’s glare, which they both know is not meant in any seriousness. "’Sides, told Jody I’d check in on Claire, too.”

“Thank you, Dean.”

“No problem,” the hunter answers, running a hand down Cas’ arm as walks by on the way to the bed. “Together, remember?”

“Yes,” Castiel agrees, but there must be less conviction in his voice than he’d hoped because Dean stops and regards him carefully, his eyes searching.

“Cas?”

This is not how he wanted to broach this topic. Sighing, Castiel pulls something out of his coat pocket and holds it up for Dean to see. The green eyes go wide, and guilt and confusion flash over Dean’s face.

“Thistle?”

“I found it, when I was cleaning the archive room,” Castiel explains, twisting the dried flower between his fingers. “But not where the herbs and other ingredients for the spell were kept. This was placed on the floor, by the blood stain. And it smells...sulphuric.”

Dean pales. “Fucking Crowley.”

“Yes, I assumed,” Cas replies neutrally. “Dean...did Crowley have something to do with all of this?”

Something in Dean’s expression makes Castiel feel incredibly unsure and almost angry. Dean and Crowley have always been...close, in a sense, and it is certainly a dynamic that Castiel does not enjoy, particularly the inevitable secrecy that comes with it (although, he does know that his own failings in this regard fuel some of that suspicion).

“Dean. What did you do?”

“Shit, Cas. I didn’t mean to keep this from you.”

“Keep _what_ from me?”

Dean’s shoulders hunch. “Crowley showed up, gave me the thistle, did his usual semi-philosophical smarter-than-everyone bullshit routine, had a drink, and left. I woulda told you—told Sam right after—but you were out cold, and by the time morning came, I just...forgot. Wasn’t keeping it a secret.”

This, Castiel can understand, and he does believe Dean. None of them had been at their best while Mary was under the spell, and once the cure had been found, things had moved very quickly.

“Why would Crowley want to help?”

Dean gives a bitter smile, and nods in the direction of the thistle. “Didn’t know then, but you said you found it in the archive? When you were cleaning?”

“Rowena’s blood,” Castiel finishes the deduction. “He wanted to track her.”

“Yeah, and the thistle is just to fuck with us.” Dean snorts. “Too bad that actually makes me feel better ‘bout the whole thing.”

“How do you mean?” Castiel returns the thistle to his pocket to dispose of later.

Sighing deeply and sitting on the bed, Dean leans forward on his elbows, and answers, “Just some of the shit he said.”

He runs both hands over his face, still hunched over. Whatever distrust and frustration Cas had had dissipates, and he brings the chair closer to the bed and sits, facing Dean, close enough that their knees touch. Dean stares down at his hands, now laced loosely between his knees, and Cas takes them in his own.

“What did he say?”

“I dunno. Usual crap about me...and him,” Dean evades, and Cas doesn’t press.

Cas thinks he understands, to a degree: Dean has always been extremely reluctant to speak of his time as a Knight of Hell and in Crowley’s company, but Castiel knows the demon, and he can assume that whatever transpired, Crowley has made sure to use it to his advantage ever since.

“He was saying me 'n him are one of the most honest relationships I have. And he’s right. In a way. Funny thing is,” Dean continues, not sounding amused at all, “him doing all that just to get to Rowena’s blood? Proves the point. He’s a demon, he’s always out for Team Crowley. That, I get. He wasn’t _just_ doing this for...”

"...for you.”

“Yeah.”

Cas looks at their hands, together, then says, quietly, “Dean, whatever hold you think he has on you—"

Dean snorts, and Cas looks up, surprised. “Think it’s the other way around, Cas.”

And in Dean's expression, Cas can read the tangle of emotion about that: the self-loathing warring with the resignation and acceptance, the gratitude and the dread of debt, the trust and the fear of betrayal. He might never know the extent or minute intricacies of Dean's relationship with Crowley, but his own experiences with the demon have been more than enough to show him that things are rarely simple where the King of Hell is concerned.  

“He talked about you, too,” Dean admits after a moment, before Cas can even formulate a response to the previous concern. “Said you ‘n him are similar for me 'cause you both know me too well—but you’re not like him, Cas, not at all. He said that I, uh, I hate and tolerate him for it, but with you, he said it’s more than tolerate, it's that I..." He swallows. "Well, I don’t hate you, Cas.” He looks away, rolling his eyes at himself in frustration. "Shit, that's not..."

Not for the first time, Cas wishes the hunter would be less obscure with his meanings, and it takes him a second to parse through Dean’s words. His eyes widen. “Oh.”

Dean’s expression closes off, and he pulls his hands away, and Cas realizes his response was probably far from adequate. He did not doubt Dean’s feelings towards him, nor his for the hunter, and he has never expected a verbal declaration of love from Dean—at least, not a conventional one; only belatedly does he realize how his reaction might have been interpreted. Unfortunately, this is still all processing for him while Dean stands, gruffly heading towards the door.

“Dean,” Cas says, standing abruptly and catching the hunter by the shoulder and spinning him around. There’s a desperation in the kiss, a need for Cas to make it clear that he understands _exactly_ what Dean means and that he reciprocates it in full. He smiles, and decides to echo the hunter. “I...don’t hate you either, Dean.”

Dean’s pupils are huge, and his lips are slightly parted. “Uh, yeah. Kinda getting that.” He manages to smile weakly.

“Good. But I can explain further, if necessary.”

Dean grins deviously, and pulls Cas forward by the waist. “Yeah, I think you might have to.”

It turns out, they both need a great deal of further explanation.

 

 

The factory above the Bunker looms up in front of them, and beside Cas, Sam puts on a quick burst of speed to carry him up the last incline. Cas keeps pace easily, despite the differences in their heights. Even with Dean’s teasing and judgments, Cas has found he enjoys jogging, and he’s glad he allowed Sam to talk him into continuing.

As per usual, they slow and then climb up to the grassy area where Cas likes to enjoy the early morning. Sam does a few stretches, then half-collapses to the ground, on his back. Cas sits serenely, feeling no need to stretch.

“Ugh, why did I let you pick the route?” Sam groans.

“You said you wanted ‘to push yourself,’” Cas reminds him.

“I didn’t know there were that many hills in all of Kansas,” Sam complains, but he sits up with a smile. “Do you even get tired?”

“Yes, but not quite so physically. My Grace is what keeps my body alive and working,” he explains.

“Huh,” Sam nods at the explanation, and Cas knows he has more questions; the youngest Winchester _always_ has more questions. He doesn’t mind, and he considers telling Sam just that, but the other man clearly decides against inquiring further for now, and he gets up, clapping Cas on the shoulder. “Gonna go shower.”

Cas nods, and just sits, looking at the horizon. In a few minutes, he hears the door of the Bunker open and close again, and he smiles to himself, expecting Dean, as usual, with his cup of coffee. But the footsteps are wrong. Instead, Mary sits next to him. She’s dressed in jeans and boots, and, Cas notes with some amusement, a purple and white plaid shirt.

“Hey, Cas.”

“Hello, Mary. How are you feeling?”

It’s been a week and a half since they were able to lift Rowena’s spell from her, but whatever the spell did to her, it attacked her physically and mentally. And yet, despite the fatigue, Mary seems to have emerged from the experience stronger in the mind. It has been many days since he’s found her looking haggard from nightmares, and her eyes hide far less grief in them than before.

“Better,” Mary answers, with a smile. She looks back out to the horizon. “You know, you were right.”

“About what?”

“Leaving Heaven. That there are good things here on Earth. That I have a place here.”

Cas studies her. She had said that she had heard him when she’d woken from the coma, but he hadn’t been sure to the extent to which she’d meant that. “That wasn’t my place to say. You are their family. If anything, _I_ am the one who is the intrusion.”

“No, Cas, no,” Mary shakes her head. “I’m sorry, and I think I owe Dean especially a few apologies about you, too. You’ve been here, been there for them. And I knew that, everyone told me that, but I didn’t _understand_ , not for awhile. So, I’m sorry.”

“I accept your apology, but please know, it wasn't required.”

“Thank you.”

They sit quietly, for a moment, before Castiel finds himself inquiring, “Can I ask what made you realize this?”

“A million things. It just took some time to all fit together.” Mary puts a hand on his forearm, patting it twice before returning it to her lap. “What I heard when I was...out. From you, and Dean, and Sam. Talks with Jody. I don’t know Eileen well enough yet, but I’d like to get to know her. And...John.”

“John?” Cas asks, his head tilted in question before he understands. “You began to pierce the Veil.”

“I suppose.”

“Have you told Dean and Sam?”

“I will. I’m sure you know, their relationship with their father is...complicated.”

“I do.” If there’s one thing he shares with the Winchesters, it’s a ‘complicated’ relationship with a father. “Why are you telling me?”

“Because you were right,” she repeats. “That morning when you tested my soul. When you said you’d understand what it’s like, no longer being in Heaven.”

“My situation and yours aren’t the same.”

Mary shakes her head with dry amusement. “No, I suppose they aren’t. But we still chose, in the end, right? To find a place here?”

“Yes.” He looks at her, and he can feel a small smile at the corners of his lips. “I have made many decisions in my life, and not many are ones I can be proud of. And I think I started making this one years ago, even if I didn’t realize it at the time. My brothers and sisters did. But, still, finally deciding, once and for all...it might be the best decision I have ever made, if one of the hardest.”

Mary’s eyes are bright, and Cas doesn’t think it’s from the sun. “So, you’re going to be an angel on Earth? An angelic hunter?”

He nods. “It’s a good purpose: there will always be people to save, and we still have enemies out there." Of this, he is certain: they are still unsure where they stand with Rowena, and Crowley, for instance, and he suspects they have not heard the last of the Men of Letters. "And here, doing this, I’m with my family.”

“Yes, our family,” she agrees, and Cas is momentarily taken aback at how much a simple pronoun can mean.

Eventually, he asks, “What about you, Mary?”

“Well, today, I thought it’d be a nice day for a ride on the bike. Maybe finish reading my book. Maybe get Dean or Sam or you to help me figure out what the hell is making the rattling sound in the shower pipes.”

“And tomorrow?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugs, but with a smile. “Guess we’ll have to wait and see.”

Just then, Dean comes over the crest of the hill.

“Hey, Mom. Didn’t know you were out here.” There’s something a little wary in Dean’s expression, as it always is when Mary and Cas are together, as though he’s waiting for the situation to turn sour. But he needn't worry. “What’re you talking about?”

“That I’m going to take the bike out for a bit, then I’m recruiting one of you three to help me fix the shower pipes,” Mary replies breezily, but with a hint of command at the mention of the shower.

“You know how to fix plumbing?” Dean asks, not in surprise, just in question. He sits on the other side of Cas, and loops an arm around his back at the waist. The act is a little self-conscious, but Cas doesn’t mind.

“Nope, but whatever’s wrong with it is driving me nuts, so I guess I'm gonna learn,” Mary shrugs, then stands up and brushes grass and dirt off the back of her jeans. “See you boys later.”

“Bye, Mom.”

“Enjoy your ride, Mary.”

As soon as she’s gone, Dean’s hand around Cas’ waist starts rubbing small circles with its thumb. Cas does the same with a hand on Dean’s thigh, just above the knee.

“So what were you two really talking about?” Dean asks, the question casual except to a seasoned associate of the elder Winchester.

“The future,” Cas responds, truthfully, if vaguely.

“The future?” There’s doubt and fear in Dean’s voice; their lives have hardly allowed for such considerations, and when they have, those considerations have generally been _away_ —away from hunting, away from family, away from whatever counts as home. “So, what does that mean?”

“It means that whatever we decide to do, we know we have a place here: a home and a family.”

Dean’s arm tightens around his waist, and Cas adjusts his position so he can meet Dean eye to eye.

“The future, huh?” This time, Dean’s voice is soft, contemplative.

“A future together.”

Because good things do happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Yes, the Crowley & Rowena storyline is kind of a loose end, but then again, is hunting ever really over?)

**Author's Note:**

> Wow. It's over. I don't think I can explain what writing this was like (the publication dates really aren't a lie -- I had sketched out a couple scenes before writing in earnest, but other than that, I wrote this in just over a month, start to finish).
> 
> Thanks for reading, both to those of you who just found this now and especially to those of you who read along the way and gave me such wonderful encouragement. Comments and kudos are ALWAYS appreciated. :)
> 
> (Shout outs to all my frequent fliers, especially kribban for being one of my first "regular" readers and supporters for any of my fics, proudfanboy for being just awesome with comments and random conversations on Tumblr, and followers like arvi and MrsWhozeewhatsis (OxfordCommaLover) for reccing my fics on Tumblr.)
> 
> Check out my other works (sorted by series for easier navigation):  
> [Grey's works](http://archiveofourown.org/users/grey2510/series)  
> Come visit me on Tumblr! @[grey2510](https://grey2510.tumblr.com/)


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